


HD 'For nearly all of his life' 2012 Smoochfest

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, M/M, Pining, RST, UST, Veela
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter is a Pædiatric Healer, a good friend of the Malfoy family, a fond 'uncle' and an inexpressibly attractive Mate. Guess which hat he doesn't realize he's wearing? Draco Malfoy is an excellent Cursebreaker, a dutiful son, a loving 'uncle' and a Veela. Guess which one of those four hats Draco Malfoy would rather not wear?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Author/Artist: tigersilver 

Betas: megyal and lonerofthepack

Glomp For: echo_of_dusk

Title: 'For nearly all of his life, from when they were children' 

Pairing(s): Harry/Draco

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. 

Warning(s): UST, buckets of. Flangst, floods of. See Author's Notes, as well. Epilogue compliant? No, not. 

Word Count: 29,500

Author's/Artist's Notes: For the sake of this fic and this fic only, the Malfoy family prefers to use a more formal sort of 'fond family nickname' for young Ted Remus Lupin or 'Teddy', as we know him. 'Theo' and 'Theodore' are not, naturally, his proper names per canon, although 'Ted' is a shortened form of Theodore or Edward, both classic English given names. The boy was presumably christened 'Ted' in honour of his maternal grandfather, Ted Tonks. However, the Malfoys are ever the Malfoys and 'Ted' is such a very...normal...name for a family accustomed to dragging down the very constellations from the sky for use of their beloved children. Ergo, one arrives at a (slightly) logical compromise: the Malfoys address Ted with great loving-kindness as 'Theo' or even 'Theodore'. Do not mistake Narcissa and Draco's 'Theo' for that bloke Nott, please. As to why, well. This Malfoy-peculiar fancy was felt to add to the ambience, which it may indeed not do, but the Author still claims a certain prerogative to screw about with the facts as she sees fit when employing 'ambiance'. Apologies, in advance, then, for this possibly jarring alteration. The title is taken from the following quote: "Snape's patronus was a doe,' said Harry, 'the same as my mother's because he loved her for nearly all of his life, from when they were children." ― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. This Author adores her discerning Betas and thanks the lovely Prompter for the opportunity to write. This Author apologizes to the Mods for being a right wanker.

**PART ONE/SIX**

"Potter."

"Uncle Harry! Uncle Harry, Uncle Harry!"

"Draco—Teddy! What brings you two here today—Oi! My feet, Teddy! When did you become an erumpent?"

"…Harry, then." Malfoy inclined his head courteously in greeting, as he always did. "Good morning. Theo, mind where you're stepping."

"Of course Harry, Draco." Potter rolled his eyes at Draco. "Don't be such a berk. Come on, kiddo, up!" Harry swung Teddy up in his arms, shushing him as he squealed. "Ooof! You were practising a ruddy tap-dance on my poor toes, young man, and I only wanted to give you a simple cuddle. Best to contain you."

"No, Uncle Harry!" Teddy took this as a cue to shout and resist for all he was worth. "No cuddles! Cuddles are for babies! I want down!"

"Theodore, your manners." Draco frowned. "Mind them."

"Not a baby," Theo insisted grumpily, twisting eel-like to survey all about the busy room. "I want down now, Uncle Harry-down! You've hugged me enough already!"

"Never enough, Ted. It's good to see you." Potter sent Draco a shy sidelong glance. "Er, both of you."

"Likewise." Draco smiled, just slightly, bemused. Potter was not so tall that he could hold high one Theodore Lupin, an animated age seven, all that easily. He sent another quelling look towards his small cousin. "Theo? Do be careful with your antics; you'll damage Pot-ah. Erm. Harry."

"Yes, do. And hang on there, little man," Potter chided, shifting about to contain the bundle of energy he'd captured. "I'm losing you." Theo squealed, loud enough to turn heads.

"Ow! You're pinching! Put me down, Uncle Harry—please?"

Potter huffed. "Fine, fine, fine. Half a sec, Ted. Well, Draco?"

"Appointment," Draco vouchsafed instantly under Potter's enquiring eye, watching whilst Potter carefully eased his charge down the shorter length of his person, settling him on the jut of a cocked hip with a conciliatory pat to the small of his little back. The boy grumbled at the liberties taken but under his breath, hanging onto Potter's neck with the crook of one elbow; Draco resolutely kept his answering stare bland and unalarming and focused solely on Potter's face. Any area below chin-level was strictly off-limits. "Routine, too. Nothing to fret over, Healer, before you even ask."

"That's good to know, thanks," Potter murmured happily, curiousity appeased sufficient to grin at Draco. He turned his attention to his godson, missing completely his old schoolmate's sudden bout of rapid blinking. "Hey, hey, it's the Human Slide, Teddy Bear, remember? Come on, you used to love that," he argued winningly, pleasant despite the boisterous boy's heavy-browed scowl and dismissively pouting lower lip. "Fine, fine. See how I'm letting you go now. See? Almost away, Ted."

"I can't reach! Why can't I reach?" Teddy's feet kicked away uselessly, a scant inch off the floor. Potter had twisted agilely enough and managed to get a grip under his armpits. "No! I'm too big for you now, Uncle Harry."

"No, you won't, not till I allow it. You aren't, Teddy. I'll still give you cuddles when you're my age, see if I don't."

"Yes, I will!" growled the boy. "'Sides, I'll smash you to bits if you keep teasing me, Unc Harry. Let me go faster, please! There's toys over there and—and there's all the other children! I want to play with them, not you."

"Theodore," Draco said sharply. "Theo, that's not"

"No, you shan't, little man," Potter cut him off smoothly, taking it all in stride. "I do believe I'm still the larger one of the two of us." He tilted his chin so as to keep Draco in view, obviously still curious. "Though not by too much anymore, eh? And maybe it's more fun for you when your other uncle does the Slide for you, eh? As he's a giant amongst Wizards. So amazingly tall, I bet you can slide for leagues and leagues."

"Not leagues, Uncle Harry," Teddy giggled, his sulk forgotten. "Uncle Draco's not that big; don't be a silly head!"

"Eh?" Draco gasped, startled. "I'm not, Potter!"

"You are, you definitely are, Draco." Potter nodded wisely. "There's Giant blood in you, I can tell. Aren't you lucky? You can reach things off high shelves, no problem."

"Potter!"

"A Giant? Uncle Draco is?" Teddy went on and on with his cascade of delighted giggles, kicking his small feet in the air in time, turning pink. Draco turned the uncertain little curl of his upper lip and his affronted eyebrows into a decided smirk, twigging at last that Potter was teasing him. It gave him a warm feeling in his gut, Potter doing that. "Uncle Draco's not a Giant, Uncle Harry!" Theo banged Potter on his godfather's chest. "He's a—he's an Uncle!"

"Nope, not just an Uncle," Potter chuckled, "but an upsize one. A super-Uncle."

"Not hardly, Po-Harry," Draco muttered softly, stung into his own self-defence. "You're exaggerating now. I'm only a little above average height. It's you who's the shrimpy sort. Foreshortened."

"Not that short, thanks—and, ah? Kidding, Draco," Potter muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "Though you do seem to have stretched, sometimes. It's a little." He flushed, ducking his chin. "Odd. Er."

"Um, no." Draco blinked, unsettled. He wasn't so tall that he couldn't fantasize about comfortably hauling Potter up against his person, maybe even scooping him up in his arms. Carrying him away, maybe, to somewhere private, and—ah!

"Ahem!" He reset his expression into the familiar lines of a courteous interest, mostly to disguise the sudden nervous tic of his left eyelid. "I don't believe so, Potter. Same as I ever was."

"Uncle Harry! Uncle Harry!"

"It's that you're chopped off at the knees, Potter." Teasing Potter, now that was something Draco could do, and happily. He roused, scenting the opportunity to maybe make Potter grin again. His way. "Someone came along and pruned you, I bet."

"UNCLE. HARRY!"

"Pruned? Right, right," Potter nodded. "Sorry, Draco, no offense meant about your height; whatever. What, Tedster? You're interrupting, you know that? What's so urgent now?"

"So it's your perspective is all skewed, being height-challenged," Draco carried on casually, "always looking up, and I am the more normal one here, Potter. Cheers, what?"

"Hush! Ted, what were you saying to me?"

"Uncle Harry!" Theo was squirming in earnest and instantly all of Potter's attention was necessary in order not to be elbowed or kneed in the privates. Potter promptly set him down, which resulted in a series of roundabouts scurries and indiscriminate tugging of both Wizard's robes and hands. "Uncle Harry! Don't forget me! What did I ask you?"

"Theo, don't bowl your wee little uncle over altogether, please. We'll lose track of him in this crowd if he goes down." Draco was on a roll; was feeling much more at ease teasing, and enjoying the flashing green glances Potter was handing him left and right, and the twinkle that lurked behind Potter's lenses. "And that would be a pity."

"Uncle Harreeee..." Theodore, sadly ignored, whined nasally, head-butting Potter's hip. "Unnnnnck Harrreeeee..."

"Jeez, too much at once. Not short, I tell you." Potter huffed at them both, eyes darting from one mischievous miscreant to the other. "Okay, okay, Teddy, do settle. This isn't a play yard. And Draco? Stuff it." Potter shrugged off the point of obvious height disparity between them, not pursuing it in favour of coping with the bouncy boy scrambling about their legs like a small dervish. "It's ...whatever, you're just so…Oh! Um, something I actually meant to ask you, Draco. What about yours? Your appointment? I know you're due also, aren't you? How've you been holding up? It's been ages since I've seen you to talk to."

"Mm. Yes." Draco stilled, lips tightening, all interest in playful badinage with Potter dying an instant death.

Draco's rambunctious little cousin, meanwhile, was stuck fast on his new fascination with the Waiting Room's offerings and was eagerly yanking at Potter's cuff.

"Uncle Harry—Uncle Harry—Uncle Harry, I wanna go!"

"Shhh!" Potter turned a hairy eyeball fully upon the little boy, jouncing about, humming loudly and off-key between bouts of chanting 'Uncle Harry'. "Hush, Ted! There's sick children here," he scolded gently. "And you're not quite eight, my little Teddy Bear boy. Not so old as I can't steal a cuddle from my favourite godson without a fuss. Do pipe down, this is a waiting room. Some of the other children here are not feeling well and you need to respect that."

"But, Uncle Har-!"

"Theodore," Draco stepped up, eyes stern, and laid a weighty hand on the little boy's collar. "Ted Remus Lupin, don't force me to be the one to carry you out of here when you can't control yourself. This appointment with Healer Lovegood can be rescheduled, you know. We can come another time, when you care to remember your proper manners."

"Aww, Draco," Potter sent an elbow out to nudge Draco's ribs. "Relax, man. He's only a little excited, is all. Let it go."

"Still…" Draco glowered meaningfully at both his crestfallen nephew and Potter, knowing they'd assume he'd not hesitate to remove the nuisance if it—er, he, as in Theo-didn't comport himself promptly. "Still." He waved a hand. "And so."

"No!" Teddy protested, making a strategic break for it, apparently unfazed by scold or glare. He slipped free of Draco's hand and danced away, unrepentant. "No, you can't catch me, Uncle Harry, Uncle Draco! Nasty mean old Uncle Draco! And don't call me a Teddy Bear, Uncle Harry—I'm not one! I'm a boy!"

"Theo–" Draco growled. "Theodore."

"Ah…Teddy, my lad." Potter sighed heavily, crossing his arms over his chest and watching his godson cavort just a few frustrating inches beyond their collective reach, dizzily celebrating his regained freedom. "Yes, you are, at that. And all boy, Ted, all boy. Got away from me again, didn't you, little scamp? Too agile for your poor old Uncle Harry; be the death of me yet. Now, what is it you want now, young sir? What's on your mind?"

"Can't catch me!" Teddy went off into a spate of triumphant hiccoughs. He sidled farther away, edging toward the crowded centre area, which they all stood a little apart from. "Don't even try, silly Uncle Harry! I'm just going over to the toys, alright?" He pointed them out, spinning as he did. "I want to play with them. And—and I'll be very good, I promise." The last was cast out carelessly, with a teasing glance back at his Uncle Draco. "I can, Uncle Draco. I can be very good when I try."

"I should hope so, Theo. You'd better," Draco admonished sternly. "Or I'll—"

"Oh, I'm sure he will, Draco," Potter smiled at him sweetly. "He just needs a diversion, that's all. Likely hates the waiting; don't we all? Go on now, Ted. Carry on. You may play with them. That's what they're here for, isn't it?"

Teddy made a beeline for a set aside area laden with divertissements, situated across the capacious space of populated chairs and sofas. Draco pursed his lips as his eyes followed their young relative, reluctant to confirm Potter's sapient guess about his own appointment and then be forced to discuss in detail his own personal reasons for stopping at St. Mungo's. His blasted symptoms, the ones that never really went away. Really, he hated that Potter knew so much about his latent condition but Potter was a Healer, a brilliant one, and the only one in the family. And Potter knew all about him...to a certain point.

"So," Potter prompted, all piercing stares. "You and him, both, today? Or just him?"

"Both, actually," Draco allowed grudgingly. "Theo's to have his usual monthly exam and I'm for my usual injection."

"Hmm-mm."

Draco grimaced. Didn't mention that he was a month or more behind on his scheduled doses, as that wasn't important. What Potter didn't know wouldn't hurt him. "It's Lovegood this time, I think. For Theodore," he added, hoping to distract Potter completely.

"Ah," Potter nodded wisely, gaze sharpening. "I see." He blinked, disingenuously. "Well, good show. Come have tea with me after, then. I'm only in for two consults this morning, otherwise I'm free. Should be wrapped up by eleven, so…pop by."

"Oh, no." Draco immediately plastered on a 'sincerely regretful' look. "Thank you, Po—Harry, but I don't believe we'll have the time for—"

"No, Uncle Draco!" Teddy was returned unexpectedly; must've been following along even as he darted aimlessly about the bustling receiving room. He popped up like a tiny jack-in-the-box between them and tossed in his two knuts, "I want to take tea with Uncle Harry. I want to—so, so much, Uncle Draco. Please let me?"

"Theo."

"May we?" The boy pulled out all stops, wheedling, his little boy dimples out in full force. Draco swallowed. He absolutely hated to deny Theo a single thing, though it often fell to his lot to do so, being the responsible Malfoy. "Please, please, please? I'll be ever so well mannered, I promise." Huge wide eyes had gone totally grey and entreatingly honest; his hair was changed to black and curly, falling in tendrils across an unscarred brow. He was the very image of a possible Potter-Malfoy offspring...if ever such an unlikely thing should occur. Draco frowned. That wasn't on, no. Nor were the odds ever likely to alter. "I won't even jiggle my feet or anything, Uncle Draco, and I promise I'll take all my vitamin potions like big boy and not spit them out, just like you said I must. Please, please? I so want to."

"…Well," Draco hesitated, torn. "I don't th—"

"Draco?" Potter edged closer, bumping Draco's shoulder encouragingly. "It'd be lovely."

"Please, Uncle Draco?" The boy jittered peripatetically about them both, his small face screwed up with stubborn determination as he sensed Draco's uncertainty, his hair flashing puce to aubergine to magenta as he pleaded. "Please, pretty please, Bott's on top?"

"Hmm. If—and only if, Theo—I agree to this, we'll not be able to stay long," Draco interjected, gaze darting toward Potter. Lovely Potter, waiting there so patiently for them to settle the matter, gorgeous lips curled up at the corners in that quirky way Draco always fell fathoms for, despite all his better intentions. "I, er, we, that is. We are on a strict schedule today, Theo. Remember?"

"I know!" Teddy jumped in to assure him, ever so eagerly. "But I so miss taking tea in Uncle Harry's rooms. We've not been in ages and he's the very best toys in there. Not like these boring old ones." His wildly flung out fingers indicated that the usual motley collection to be found in St Mungo's Paediatrics Unit was stodgily pedestrian, at best. "I hate all these fuddy-duddy old Magic-y ones, Uncle Draco, you know that. I want to play with Uncle Harry's toys. His are all Muggle and new. I like Muggle!"

"Hmm…" Draco caught himself fidgeting with his wand holster and promptly put a stop to it, instead clasping his hands primly behind his back. "Hmm. Well. Perhaps, just for a short while. Maybe."

"Er, Draco?" Draco resolutely did not look Potter's way. That way lay ruinous seduction; he knew better. "If I could, um?"

"Long enough for a real tea, though, right, Uncle Draco?" Teddy was absolutely a hard case, not to be appeased by any scant flying visit. He redoubled his begging accordingly. "Uncle Harry, tell him he has to, won't you?"

He spun to paw pleadingly at Harry's white robes and fiddle with his name badge, caught on a long lanyard: 'Doctor Potter, Head Paediatrics Division' it read, and Draco absentlyminded zeroed in on the grinning magically pixellated image of Potter, St. Mungo's most favourite doctor. "I love your office, Uncle Harry, I love it best of all!" Teddy carried on, hopping from one leg to another to demonstrate the level of his enthusiasm. "I want to go there and drink tea with you, Uncle Harry, and eat all those little cakes you hide in your desk drawers, the Jaffa ones, and the Frogs you think I don't know about—I want to! Tell Uncle Draco we must!"

"Ah..." Potter flushed pink and shifted uncomfortably. "Ted, I'm not about to inconvenience your, er. If he's not willing, and all. I can't just say at him. It wouldn't be fair."

"Theo!" Draco was just as put out, but on Potter's behalf. "You mustn't press your godfather like that, not for small favours. He's a busy man, Theo; a Healer. Have a care."

"He's never too busy for me, Uncle Draco." The boy flashed emerald eyes at them both; in retaliation, perhaps, his hair gone again Malfoy-coloured. "Is he? Pretty please? Tea—tea—tea?"

"Oh...well. Busy?" His godfather snorted, lips quirked up. "Not so much today, thank Merlin." He bumped into Draco's side again, disregarding Draco's own barely stifled snort. "You know, though? He's totally right about the one thing, at least—all our bloody busyness. It's been absolute ages since I've seen you do anything more than nod at me on your way by, Draco. Do come, won't you? We can really catch each other up for once. And I want to see you. Today's a perfect chance."

A faint red flush began to creep up Draco's neck. "I, uh...hmmm."

Potter? Potter wanted to see him? Mercy!

He nearly caved then and there and only because yes, indeed, Potter did have the very best amusements cluttering up his St. Mungo's private office. Plus, he knew full well Theodore looked forward to the chance to fiddle with them as a reward for visiting Healer so often, far more so than other children his age were required. All of the amusements Potter kept for his small patients were Muggle in origin, as well, a novel quality which apparently utterly fascinated ill little Wizards and Witches, brightening their spirits when Potter poked and prodded at them. Of course, Potter did believe a child who was happy to visit their Paediatric Healer was a child one step further along the path to good health. Terribly forward-thinking, that, but Draco found he approved. And then there was this one game…Mousetrap™, was it? No, Operation™. Both of those were quite loads of fun when he, Potter, his mum and Aunty Drom had played them at home with Potter to amuse Theo—ah.

"Draco?"

He'd been drifting, for a moment, and he'd been then cannily cornered, mentally; Potter and the boy were awaiting his yea or nay with more and less patience, respectively.

"Um," Draco hummed, stalling. On the one hand, Potter. On the other hand, it wouldn't be a very smart idea, whiling time away with Potter. Not for him, specifically. "Er."

"Really, Draco?" Potter was as fidgety as Theo, one dark brow raised sceptically, hands clasped behind his back in an sort of subconscious mirroring of Draco's stance. "Come on, Draco. Don't faff about, just say yes. I won't keep you long if you've something on after, I promise."

"Er…" Draco sidled away a pace; Potter did things to him—bad things. Too, too brilliant things, if one thought about it from his other perspective. Really, he was the one who must take particular care to behave in public, not little Theo. "Um."

"Draco, really now! Stop waffling. When I become such an ogre?"

"Uncle Draco? Do you...do you not want to? Did you and Uncle Harry have a tiff?"

"No! Gods, no, Theo; nothing like that."

"Hmph!" Potter snickered amiably beside him. "I should hope not."

Oh! Draco groaned internally, torn. This was horrible, wanting what he couldn't have. Even now Potter's heady pheromones were a major overload for his system, even so soon after imbibing his suppressant. Bloody fuck, but he was incredibly enticing, was Potter, as Draco had learnt to rue the hard way. He always needed all his resources to cope. But then... Theodore.

"Fine, yes, all right, we will. But only for a short while." Draco cast a harried, slant-eyed glance at his nephew. "You know both your Aunt Cissy and your grandmother want you at home again by one on the dot, Theo. The tutor's calling in today; you've lessons later. And I have work."

"Okay! Okay, okay, okay!" Their nephew sing-songed joyfully, promptly skittering off to peer curiously at one of the other children messing about the waiting room, a cute wee blonde girl of about his age. He wasn't shy at all, was Teddy Lupin, and he took every opportunity he could grab with both to meet new people, especially kids. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! You're the best, Uncle Draco—the very bestest! See you soon, Uncle Harry!" he flung over his small shoulder, fast disappearing. "Laters!"

"Off you go again, then." Potter sent a nod and a grin after Theo and then fixed Draco with an assessing professional stare. "You all right there, Draco? You've not been pushing it, have you?"

"What? No!" Draco shot back, bridling. "Of course not, P-Harry. I am perfectly, amazingly healthy, thanks. Never been better."

"You look knackered, though." Potter wrinkled his scar up at him, peering professionally. Adorably, too. Curses! "Peaky. Sleeping alright?"

"Well, I am fatigued, of course." Draco frowned away towards the crowd in some fine confusion. Potter was well aware of the exigencies of cursebreaking. "It's par for the course in my line of business, er-Harry. You know that. Takes a lot out of you."

"Yes, of course, but…still. And all." Potter shrugged. "It's you, Draco." As if that were reason enough.

Draco broke curses. Rather, Draco obliterated curses, as if they had never been. And he was Bill Weasley's right-hand Wizard, full junior partner just promoted in Weasley & Malfoy, Ltd., and responsible for all the night shifts and most weekends, so of course he was always tired. It came, as he said, with the territory. Curses did not keep to the quotidian schedule, after all.

"I'm very well," he repeated. "Really."

"Huh," Potter didn't look quite convinced. "So you say." He settled his robes into smooth lines down his hips and flanks, as they'd been rucked and wrinkled from having an active boy flail against them, and took another of those friendly steps sideways and closer to Draco. Draco flinched ever so slightly and then froze. "Well, don't push yourself too hard, mate. And don't forget to come and knock me up when Ted's through here. I'll be in my office."

"Yes, alright." Draco nodded, gliding away from Potter as fast and furtively as possible and looking absently about him for his absent nephew. Well, 'cousin', technically, but who was keeping tabs? Theo was the closest thing he'd ever have to a real live nevvie, him being an only child, never likely to marry, so… "Damn, where'd he run off to now, the little scamp? I can't find him. And it's almost time, now; right on ten."

"He's over there. See?" Potter was once right up by Draco's side, pointing a neatly trimmed and meticulously clean fingernail. "Chatting up that little girl, the horribly frilly one in pink. Must like brunettes, Teddy. He's gone all nut-brown now, hasn't he?"

"Ah…our neo-nascent little charmer. How politic." Draco managed to sound only dryly amused and not verging on the suddenly breathless, which he was. Potter was much too close upon him, physically, and he couldn't inhale. Or exhale. His pulse was pounding.

"Hah!" Potter chuckled quietly. "Never too soon to start, Draco. P'raps he'll have better luck than I ever did, if he's already having a go at this age."

"Y-Yes." Draco hated when it happened like this, when he wasn't minding his immediate physiological reactions and Potter's magnetic draw snuck up on him. Of course, the potion's job was to do that for him, covering up for his weakness. Keep him staidly in check. That, or he'd never have survived this long else. "Flirting like a champ already, I see, and so young."

"Must be a Malfoy thing, that," Potter snickered right at his elbow. "Your trademark, my Prince. You're all about the charm."

"Ahem." Draco coughed quietly. "Yes, er. Right, maybe so. Maybe not, too." Charm? Talk about charm. Potter was the one who had started early, no matter what he might claim otherwise. Draco remembered the incident on the Express and very well, thanks, not to mention Madam Malkin's. Potter, damn the man, was attractive right now, this moment, even when being a prat and especially at close quarters: white robes and green eyes and black hair, all so vivid, so enthralling. And that cologne, all 'Eu de Potter'—and that mouth, lush and sly. Talk about 'come-ons', talk about 'pulling', talk about 'wank fantasies' and idiot Potter didn't even realize he was one, walking, the git!

"Merlin. Save me."

"Hmm?"

"Pah." Draco snorted under his breath. "Nothing, nothing at all." Clearly, he'd had been none too soon in keeping his own appointment, though the brand-new dose of potion felt as though it wasn't even present, not at all racing through his bloodstream, saving him from his hideous, beastly urges. Protecting them both.

"Draco?" Potter elbowed him swiftly, nose wrinkling up in quick concern. "Where'd you just go, mate? Don't you have to fetch Ted now? I think you're maybe late."

"Okay." Draco exhaled a tight breath, beleaguered on all fronts. "Ah, shit, really? Damn! Right, sorry; let me extract him. He's on the book for Lovegood, so...you know," Draco shrugged. "Best foot forward, yes? First time visit with her, been a while. Like to make a good impression. Theo!"

"Uh-huh."

"Teddy! Teddy Lupin, attend to me, please!" Draco stepped forward, raising his voice to carry over a welter of heads and hats. "Over here, young man! This minute!"

"Cheers, then," Potter nodded. "I'll leave you to it. And Luna's great, don't fret. Marvellous with the Creature kids, won't give a jot if you're a few minutes. Must dash, as I've got an appointment of my own now. Catch you both later, yeah? And best of luck, mate, corralling him. Hope he behaves for you."

"Yes. Fine," Draco gritted, unhappy but determined to keep his 'company face' intact. "Thanks, Potter. Go away now, shoo."

Potter walked away with a smile on his face, chuckling, not bothered at all by being summarily sent off. Draco cast a covetous eye on the rear view, and fought down his instincts.

Fuck, but running into Potter unexpectedly at St. Mungo's was always such a trial and sometimes excessively awkward, as well. He'd not forgotten that singular moment of two years ago, at the onset of his condition—not for one moment had he forgotten. The wonder of it was that Potter always seemed so unfazed whenever they stumbled into each other's paths outside the Manor. He was so friendly, so casual. Even here, on the scene of the crime, as it were. It had been almost exactly where they were standing, just now, after all…and Potter had been so gorgeous, so beautifully mussed up and eyes hazy.

Draco blinked away the bothersome memory determinedly, hot as it made him under the collar of his tailored business robes.

Swinging on a heel, he affixed a chilly eye upon his recalcitrant charge. And there was Potter again, on the other side, whisking neatly through a discreetly beige door. "Theo! Theodore Lupin, come along now! Attend to me, please. You're keeping Healer waiting on you, you scamp. And me."

Nothing doing; Theo didn't even look up. The little brunette must be a real charmer. Like Potter, then.

"Theo!" Draco blinked and made his way through the maze of seating, excusing himself left and right, hastily bashing back the urgent command thrumming through his bloodstream: that terrible urge to follow hard on Potter's heels, to manhandle him against a wall or across one of the long sofas crammed with anxious parents and restless children and have his way with him. Fuck him silly, snog him stupid. Here, now. Never, ever let him go. "Theo, don't make me come over there to collect you, Theo."

Gods, yes. Snog him and feel him and shag him and never, ever let him—argh!

"Uncle Draco?" His nephew's voice piped up at his elbow, nearly startling him straight out of his skin. "I'm here, sorry. I didn't hear you at first."

"Augh! Merlin!"

"No, really, I'm right here, Uncle Draco." Guileless eyes blinked up at him. "Er? Uncle Draco, are you feeling well? You look awfully funny."

"Fuck," Draco muttered under his breath. "Fuck. Stupid Veela. Idiot Veela." His gaze happened to land square on his nephew. "Oh, there you are, Theodore. Finally. Come along now, we're tardy. You know how I very much dislike being tardy, Theodore. It's not done."

"Eeee! You! You!" Theo squeaked, instantly diverted from his uncle's pale face and perspiring brow. Also the twitchy manner in which Draco grasped at his nephew's shoulder and steered him off to the Healers private office's corridor with alacrity. "Uncle Draco, you said a swear—I heard you!" His gap-toothed grin was unholy with glee, his hair and eyes aquamarine with a dithery excitement. "I heard you, I heard you! Auntie Cissy's going to make you pay a galleon to the Swear Jar, Uncle Draco—no! Ten galleons, I bet, when I tell her—"

"You'll not be telling her, then, will you?" Draco demanded acidly, nudging his little charge along. "Or there'll be no taking tea with your other uncle after, I can promise you that. Don't push me, Theo."

"Awwww! Uncle Draco! Gran'ma'll—"

"Auntie doesn't need know, either, Theo, if I swear now and again. I'm a grown man. Don't tattle."

"M'not tattling!" Ted was as theatrically affronted as only a little boy can be. "Wouldn't tattle, but it's true!" He curled his upper lip at the great injustice being done him and flailed his arms wildly. "You said a bad word, I heard you! Doesn't matter if you're bigger than me, that's still bad, Uncle Draco! Bad, bad, bad; worser even than me, when I do it!"

"Even so." Draco glared straight ahead, grateful to catch sight of Lovegood's nameplate. "Makes no matter, Theo."

"I don't see why?" A small hand tightened on Draco's larger one, tugging impatiently, drawing him to a halt before the entry. "How come you can you say bad words and I can't? Oh!" Theo stomped a foot in hasty temper when his uncle frowned. "It's not fair! Not fair at all. You're soooo mean, Uncle Draco." He glanced up mutinously at his grim-eyed elder cousin. "And you're a mean, mean grown-up man, Uncle Draco. You're a bully. I hate you!"

"Yes, exactly so, a bully," Draco huffed. He grinned evilly down at his much-loved bother of a nephew. "And so you should, Theo. Never forget how very mean I can be, my dear darling brat. Now, go," he gestured the little boy forward. "Off with you. And do behave. Healer Luna's been very eager to meet you, little man. Make me proud."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	2. Chapter 2

**PART TWO/SIX**

His potion injection was not nearly as effective as it had been, once; Draco could only conclude this was an unfortunate by-product of extended use. There could be no other reason he would be so inextricably caught up by poor unsuspecting Potter's gorgeous throat. Lean, muted golden, lovely, it was symptomatic of the rest of Potter: sexy as sin and bloody well oblivious when fancied. And currently it was in motion right before Draco's glazed eyes and all he really wished was for an opportunity to lick it. Give it justice, really; its proper due as one of the beautiful things to be found in nature.

"Hmm?" he murmured, because Potter was talking, and he should at least make some sort of effort to be appear to be following along. "Yes, go on?"

"And then Aunty Drom and Mum Weasley want us all to come down to Shell Cottage for a week or so, in July, I think." Potter had been chatting away a mile a minute, flashing the length of taut skin with nary a care that his guest was a mass of seething lust, only barely restrained by innate good breeding. And drugs, of course. Always with the potion, but never the cure. "I'm sure Bill's invited you all along already, right?"

Draco blinked and did not reply.

"...Er," Potter coughed, gently. "Right, mate?"

Potter's throat was framed perfectly by his carelessly unbuttoned robes' collar. Crisp pure white set off skin supple, firm and expressly engineered to be tasted. Draco mumbled a receptive syllable, nodding vaguely at the mention of Bill—what? yes, he knew him; of course he knew him!—and forcibly dragged his relentless stare far from the fetching brilliance of Potter's Adam's apple, moving languidly as the silly, glorous bugger casually swallowed down his tea and cocked his too-kissable chin at Draco.

"Mate?"

"Ah?" It struck him it was his turn to speak. Which meant he should cease the staring act. "Yes, Potter. Whatever."

But the striped satin beige-on-taupe wallpaper provided no relief when Potter exclaimed happily, his lickable, fuckable, snoggable and above all markable neck refusing to be easily dismissed from Draco's rapt attention.

"That's alright, then. Anyway, I was also thinking Teddy might be in need of swim lessons, Draco, so if you could see your way to drop a word in your mum's ear, that'd be—"

"Yes," Draco nodded, agreeing without digesting a single word, not one. "Uh-huh."

Really, he couldn't not look. It was a most beautiful neck; a gem of a neck. He could watch it perhaps from the corner of his eye if he was forced to, should Potter note his distraction. He hoped Potter wouldn't. All shadowy hollows and warm flexing skin, and the little divot at the base that practically begged for someone to kiss it. Him, preferably, but someone. Just. Superb. Whatever Potter wanted, Draco would be happy to provide, as long as he had that neck on him—oh! Fuck!

"—really brilliant—" Potter burbled on.

Fuck. No, Draco thought, not again. He was drifting, wasn't he?

"—alright? Draco?"

At sea, and his Veela-stomping potion was worth about rubbish, for all the good it was doing him anymore.

"Draco? Are you with me, here?"

Fuck!

"Of-of course!" he sputtered, clenching whitened knuckles about his tea cup handle in a valiant effort to keep himself grounded, Potter's beguiling skin be triply damned. "Yes, okay, brilliant, I agree." Else he might fling his person at Potter's equally charming feet and beg for a go at whatever Potter might be willing to share with him: toes, neck, elbows. "Whatever you say, Potter. I already agreed, didn't I? Just now—I distinctly recall agreeing, no objections here."

"Harry." Potter sent him a Look. "And, no. No, you didn't, so much."

"Fine, Harry." Draco scowled just a little at being subject to an admonitory glint from those lovely eyes. It wasn't him doing it, being rude. Stupid Veela. "Lessons, yes. You want Theo to have lessons in water safety, fine and dandy. Brilliant, super. Full steam ahead; I've no issue with it. You're the bloody Healer, P-Harry, so whatever you think is best."

Draco slurped at his tea fiercely, in a pointless attempt to divert Potter's eyes from his face. Which was red as fire; he just knew it was.

"Um. Right." Harry crooked his eyebrows, visibly bewildered by the sudden intense turn their chat had taken. "….Er." He blinked at Draco, rapidly. Draco never blinked; he was occupied absorbing. "Thanks," Potter waggled his eyebrows at Draco, "but maybe not that brilliant. Sort of more…sensible? Yes, sensible." He sat back in his seat and tilted his head the other way, quizzical. "Cottage by the sea, Draco. Beach, sand, swimming. Sort of follows, right? Erm, Draco?"

"Mmh?"

When Potter angled his head in just that pert manner Draco naturally had to notice his earlobes. They were, sadly, just as lovely as Potter's throat. Damn.

"Draco. Draco?"

"Huh?" Although he rather desperately wanted to lick all of Potter on display, plus all the rest that was not, Draco manned up, reeling in his contrarily lusty Veela-id by main force and a targeted application of the most stringent Malfoy willpower. And the potion. Naturally the potion, new and fresh, infusing him. Because it was precisely this sort of fuzzy thinking that had landed him in trouble last time, hadn't it? That, and Potter's come-hither hair. And the way Potter smelt—and the way he moved—and the terrible way he was everything Draco might want to have for himself. Keep.

Love.

"Draco?"

"Hmm? Wha—oh. Mmm..." He hummed, nervously, wrenching his gaze off Potter and affixing it upon his tea, sloshing merrily about due to his stupidly trembling fingers. If—oh, please Merlin, if—Potter would only cease observing Draco so closely, this tête-à-tête would progress so much more smoothly. He'd be able to keep his head screwed on properly, for one, if he didn't feel as though Potter-the-Healer was taking in his every little giveaway twitch and tic. "What did you say again, j-just now? About brilliant, Potter? Would you mind repeating it, please? I...uh. I didn't quite catch it."

"About the lessons, Draco." Potter squinted even more curiously at him, if that was possible. It was; Potter was a Healer, sod him. "Bathing lessons, remember? For our Ted. Shell Cottage is by the sea and Teddy's certainly old enough by now to want to…" Potter's voice trailed off at Draco only gaped, because throat and earlobes and face. "Um, er…hey? Are you—look, are you okay?"

"No!" Draco gasped. "No, I meant—yes! Yes, of course!"

Potter seemed as though he might jump to his feet and approach Draco, perhaps whip out his Healer's wand, too.

"Oh. Kaaaay..." He didn't, thankfully.

"Oh! Ah, it's nothing, don't mind me, please." Draco jolted and shied back, taking especial care with his cup for fear of fumbling it. He was never clumsy anymore; he was Veela. "Disregard it, please. I'm fine. Never been better."

"You're fine."

Wizard Malfoy inhaled deeply, willing his potion to be effective. His bloodstream warmed accordingly: Wizard Malfoy, one point; Veela Malfoy, zero. "Everything's fine, Potter." Willing his Veela to fuck off. It slunk away, so he grinned. Tautly to be sure, but still he was smiling at Potter. The polite thing to do when calling in for tea and a chat. "The lessons, too. Anything your little heart wants, all fine."

"…Fine?" Potter echoed. "You're sure?"

"…Sure?" Draco jerked his chin. "Of course I'm sure." He was absolutely positive of many, many things and one of those was that Potter was horribly, viciously attractive. Potter was always attractive, as he was Draco's Mate; he was meant to be that way. Chemistry said so, sod Chemistry. But, right at the moment, he was particularly so, the little stinker. It was awful, really. Draco could hate him for it, 'cept he could never hate him, not Potter. "Why wouldn't I be sure?"

The Veela wasn't going down without a fight, no, sirrah! Against his will, Draco's eyes strayed avidly over the form of his old nemesis.

Potter's hair was still mostly styled even though he'd clearly run his pretty fingers through it; his specs were stylish as well. His Healer's robes were tailored to a 'T' and outlined a trim, fit body, one that would've left an appreciative Malfoy's mouth watering even without the influence of the damned Veela. Thin cotton scrubs beneath the Healer's attire did not a bloody thing to disguise a very fuckable form lurking beneath them, either. And the colour white suited Potter's person very well. His green eyes were brilliant in contrast to his black-blue hair and the sheen of healthy golden fine-grained skin Draco glimpsed at wrist and neck, and all set off by a dazzlingly snowy canvas, intriguingly rumpled. Mouth-watering, the picture as a whole.

Draco swallowed convulsively. He was both ivory and gold, was Potter, jewel-toned and he was indeed, oh, so pretty. Draco only wanted a chance to lick bits, here and there. Earlobes, for example. Throat.

Potter looked meditative. He propped his chin on a fist and regarded Draco over the edge of his spectacle frames. "Hmm, I don't know about that."

Neck. Gods! Save him, Salazar!

Draco stifled a groan. Potter was rubbing the back of it, his specs sliding unregarded down his loveable nose.

A pair of pointy, patrician, Pureblood nostrils flared, scenting. He could practically taste the good clean aroma rising off of Potter's nape, the smell of shampoo and a gorgeous male body and the residual lemony cleaning charms lingering round that white Healer's robe. Starch. He realized he was finding starch to be exciting.

He made a noise, a tiny wretched one, born of straight-out common lust and burgeoning years of clawing desire. Gods, but he was all that was pathetic. A sad case and no doubt about it.

Fortunately Potter didn't seem to catch it. Or clue in to what it really was, which was a prayer for help from any passing demi-god who might be heeding.

"I don't know that I'm sure, Draco," Potter sat up abruptly and shook his head slowly over his cuppa. "I'm asking you what you think, here. What if he's too young still? Should we wait on this, hold off another year? What do you think?"

"What?" Draco barked, not caring in the slightest about thinking. "Think?" Well, caring but not, either. Thinking? He'd better things to think of. Though he did care, because Potter cared. Think, think, think! He must remain focussed! "Don't be ridiculous, Po-Harry. Of course he's not too young."

"You know, Draco," Potter muttered softly, eyeing over the brim of his cup, "it's not 'Potter' and it's not 'Po-Harry', it is just 'Harry'. 'Harry', is all. Very simple. Can you bear it?"

"What? Fine," Draco sniffed. "Very well, Potter, I'll keep that in mind, thanks, but you were asking my opinion just now and I'm giving it, yes? Theo will be glad to have lessons. He's seven. More than old enough."

"Seven. Hmm."

And, oh, but it was horrible and awful and completely no good, seeing Potter like this, on the fly, as it were. Without his Mum and Aunt Andromeda and Theo as a buffer, completely defenceless even if forewarned. It wasn't as though he wasn't exhausted already, coming off the last week's hyper-speed round of curse-breaking. Draco admitted that freely; he'd no time to himself yet this morning to build up his usual shields against Potter's unfairly unique appeal before a bloody chance meeting and now this bloody friendly tea he must continue to endure. The weekend's roster had been a long one: down to Sussex and back again, a flying visit to a haunted cottage in South Wales, a Banshee and a huge lot of recalcitrant Brownies in central London, infesting some old cow's kitchen. He was fagged to death and he'd put off his usual appointment a little too long maybe, thinking that perhaps his condition was improving with time. Only as he'd been so busy with work he and Potter hadn't seen much of one another lately. As he'd foolishly dared wonder if a certain distance maintained would give him a bit of immunity.

"Yes, seven."

He'd been a fool to think that. Beyond idiot. But, damn, he was ever so glad to see Potter now, even if it was murdering him by slow inches to do so. He was blessed by kind coincidence, actually, and Potter needed to be aware it wasn't him at fault here. No, never him. It was Draco himself, with his wayward Veela and his failing regime of preventative meds to blame.

"Potter?"

Accordingly he sat up, pasting on a smile. The kind, concerned smile a co-uncle of sorts might wear, when discussing the best interests of a much-beloved shared nephew with his opposite number.

"I was all of three when I learnt to swim; seven is even better. Seven is perfect, actually. No, no, the idea's brilliant," he nodded eagerly, throwing his all into it. "Carry on with this plan of yours. It's a brilliantly excellent plan, my man."

"Ah? Is it, now?" Potter seemed dubious yet. "'Cause I think—I think, well, maybe I'm taking advantage of you, Draco. And I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. You're so—and you're always busy, working, working, working. Too busy to bother, Draco, and I know Bill relies on you. I hate to do it, really. Hate to nag at you when you're knackered and clearly run off your feet with work. Curses are never any fun to deal with; I know that." He shrugged helplessly. "But—"

Worse than that, Draco noted, Potter's insatiable curiousity had been whetted. By him, egads!

"Huh," Draco snorted loudly, keeping to task with conscious effort and attempting to mentally quell the probing questions he could almost see leaping up Potter's lovely throat. Questions he's no intention of ever answering. "Hardly!" No, they were dancing unspoken on the tip of that inviting red tongue, perched precariously upon those luscious lips Potter kept wetting nervously. He oculd not have Potter probing away at a wound like his; he'd go all gooey inside if Potter so much as touched him with those trained Healer's fingers. "You, taking advantage of me, Potter? That'll be the day!"

"Er?" Potter blinked. "Er, you mean you don't mind? It's alright?"

"No!" Potter appeared uncomfortable as well as unsure of Draco's response; Draco couldn't have that—never! "No, I mean. I mean, certainly not, Po-Harry. I don't mind; how could I ever mind when it comes to Theo's wellbeing? And I heard you perfectly well the first time; no need to repeat yourself over and over when I've already said yes to you. I'm not deaf, never have been. Totally sound; I'm a Malfoy! And of course I'll enquire, but you know how Mother is. Always flitting here and there. Aunty's no better; she's her little group of ladies she's matey with. They do macramé and brew gardening potions every other weekday morning, I think. May as well have me do it, you know? I'm the one who's reliably most at home during the week, so naturally I'm the one who'll—"

"No, no." Potter blinked rapidly and shook his head so a few errant curls trailed down his forehead in a glossy tumble. he shoved them off impatiently. "No. That's not fair, either. There's no need for that. You are run off your feet, Draco, I know it. Worse than me, I think. I never see you anymore. You're never there when I pop over."

"Huh?" The tendrils curling about his beloved's brow were silky-shiny in the light, dark as any moonless midnight, and Draco so wished to touch them. "What's that now?"

Just briefly, because he'd not really touched Potter in ages—two years now, excepting quick handshakes and fleeting brush-bys in doorways and on hearthmats—and it was slowly killing him not to feel. And…well, he wasn't quite alive without feeling Potter now and again, was he?

"Nonsense!" Hadn't been. Not since school, maybe. It was a bad thing, that—very. Difficult. So much so he'd beg for a bloody punch from Potter's lovely knuckles at this instant, even. Pathetic! "You're seeing me right now, Potter. Here I am, large as life. Eager. Nay—willing!"

That wimpy sally earned Draco a tiny grin, a rueful one.

"Hmm, true, but. One would think you were avoiding me or something." Potter laughed uneasily and shrugged, settling back in his seat. "I hope you're not—um. Well, in any case, about these lessons? For Ted?"

"No," Draco murmured, reflecting on the salutary powers of a broken nose, brought about by Potter. It might feel pretty decent, actually. "Not so much. The avoiding."

Avoiding Potter? Potter thought Draco was? No, not really.

Draco wrinkled his brow thoughtfully; he couldn't very well avoid Potter. Potter was at the Manor nearly as often as Draco was, to spend time with Theo. He'd been enfolded into the small Malfoy family without so much as a murmur to the contrary by Draco's Mum and Aunty, too. And Draco, before the worst had gone and descended on his head. But then…seeking him out? No, not that either. Not if he could possibly prevent himself from doing so. Draco knew his limits, post-Veela apocalypse. Best to stay active, stay involved. Work, work, work, that was the ticket to all his troubles. Static, mayhap, being stuck in an eternal stall circling Potter, but at least he was occupied with something beyond pointless yearning.

Pointless yearning had very little to commend it, in Draco Malfoy's opinion. Should anyone ask, he'd tell them. Damn Veela.

"I can do most of it, Draco." Potter was well into assuring him of how very little precious time of Draco's he'd be taking up ever so earnestly, setting his cup down upon the table and leaning eagerly forward to tap Draco's kneecap in passing. Perhaps his hand lingered for a moment longer than truly necessary. Or expected. "About the actual lessons, I mean, taking Ted to-and-fro. That's alright, don't worry your head over that part. I've time to wait for during the Duckling Class down in the gym, I think; Tuesdays and Thursdays the Wizarding Red Cross Auxilliary holds it and those are my light days in the office. We only have to make arrangements for him to be brought here to St. Mungo's, as he can't Floo yet, unattended. Can you see to that bit, you think—if I go ahead and schedule him into the loop? And clear it with your mum and Aunty Drom for me first?" He humped a shoulder. "I was planning to Owl over but I don't think..."

"Ah?" Draco was thoroughly distracted—again. His kneecap felt lovely and it was spreading up his leg, that Potter-touch. "Yes, alright?" His very fingertips itched, his jaw ached from grinding his mandibles; he'd like very much to rub that touch right in, right down to the bone. "Mother and Aunty?"

"Yes, of course your mum and Aunty Drom. They have to know, Draco." Potter scowled fretfully. "Not going ahead without their express say-so, you know."

"Wh—ahem." Draco's throat tightened unbearably as he fought to rip his wayward gaze from Potter's pretty pink lips, spouting errant scheduling nonsense at him. Or something of the sort; he couldn't clearly recall. "Wh-what, Potter? What about my Mother and Aunty now?"

"Merlin's Arse! Harry, Draco, for god's sake—it's Harry. How many times?" Potter exhaled impatiently and Draco snapped his eyes deliberately away, fast as he could, desperate to focus elsewhere. Anywhere elsewhere, for fuck's sake. Really, this was awkward. He should go. he should gather up Theodore and flee, as soon as Potter was finished with informing him of whatever it was he really wanted of Theo's other guardian.

"...Draco?" Potter prompted gently, after a long moment. Theodore, assembling a momentous construction of Muggly plastic pieces culled from at least four different board games in the corner, never glanced over at them, not once.

"I," Draco flushed, unbearably humiliated. He was never this rude, this disgustingly inattentive and certainly not to Potter. "I—I am sorry. Harry. Sorry."

"Eh? No, never mind that. See here, mate." Potter bent his beautifully flexible torso even nearer Draco's stiff form, stretching out his dangerous hand across the corner of the tea table. It faffed about an inch off Draco's nose tip, disturbing the air currents but never quite reaching. "Draco? You know, you really don't look so well at all, Draco. I have to say I don't care for what I'm seeing here today, not one little iota. Fagged to death, a bit grey. Tense. You are absolutely positive you've been catching enough shut-eye lately? What's with all these lines on your forehead? Your hands are shaking."

The reaching fingertips finally brushed Draco's perspiring forehead before he could flinch back and prevent them.

"You're all damp."

Gods! The second touch bestowed by his unwary Mate in so many moments nearly felled him where he sat, dumbstruck. Yes, his most recent dose of portion was absolute rubbish, no doubt about it.

"Are you sick? Been feeling poorly? At all, Draco?"

"I'm," Draco breathed, almost soundless with shock. No, not 'sick'. He'd a condition. As Potter knew. A serious, sometimes fatal and quite chronic condition. It was called 'Potter'. No...it was called 'Harry'. And he must keep in mind to address it properly, for fear of losing these hopelessly beguiling instances of faux intimacy. "Very…well. Harry."

"Hmm. I'm more than a little concerned for you, I admit. Professionally, now." Potter scowled fretfully across the short space that separated the two men; it was delicious to watch, the way his nose crinkled up and his eyes flashed. But still Draco wanted to wipe the unhappy furrows clean away—to ensure that Potter never had cause to frown again. Not at him, at least. Please, not at him.

"Don't be," he lied promptly, snatching composure from thin air. "I'm dandy. "

"And, too," Potter growled without heat, gesturing. "I'm a bit miffed with you. You're not taking good enough care of yourself, Draco. You're paler than ever, like skim milk. And…and all sweaty and feverish to the touch. It's not even all that warm in here. The cooling charms are on full blast."

"Ah!" Draco nearly squeaked his protest. "No. It's not—it's not that, Harry." He was more than mindful of Theodore engrossed with Potter's array of Muggle toys in the one corner, but yet. His very heart was a'thirst. His very skin pained him, it had been so…very…lonely. And Potter's fleeting fingertips were heavenly, just heavenly. "No! I am wel, I tell you. Just...just a bit worn down, perhaps. Nothing to fret over, Healer. Nothing at all."

"Draco."

"No, don't. Healer." Draco shut his eyes; they felt strained with the effort of keeping them off Potter's delectable neck—hair—lips—hips. For the barest moment he allowed himself the luxury of sinking into the glory of a fantasy where he could. In which he's popped by Harry's office to take tea like a real couple would, if they missed one another's company during the day. Sneaking in and out, stealing kisses in cupboards and laughing over it later. Which was a huge, giant, red-Muggle-neon no-no of a mental whopper. Though really, really fantastic for the Veela prowling about inside. "Don't, for the love of Merlin—don't. Please, Potter."

'I'm not." Potter gulped. "I wasn't—I'm sorry."

Draco gulped and set down his tea cup firmly. "I always run hot like this; it's nothing. It's, er, normal. For people like me. You know that. You've seen the descriptions of my particular ailment in your texts, I'm sure."

Don't be sorry. Touch me, purred Draco the Veela, contrary and difficult to the last. Oh! Please for the love of Merlin do touch me. Draco grimaced, meaning to provide Potter a reassuring smile, and his inner Beast practically rolled over on its spineless, craven back, pleading for more concern, more care from Potter—just a scrap, just a hint. Oh, please go right on ahead and feel me, Potter. All over, anywhere you like. I'll make it worth your while, I promise. 

"Yes, ok—"

"And you know they're always more apparent, the side effects, when I've just been treated, right?" Draco barked doggedly, carryingon regardless, nostrils flaring as he smacked his persistent other self right smart upon the snout with a rolled-up Prophet. "And I can't help it, Potter; would much prefer to ignore it, thanks. It'll pass."

Why must Potter encourage him by caring? Bloody caring at him, as if he were Theo or someone Potter really loved. The great tit should know better by now, shouldn't he? He couldn't bear caring. It was the cruellest thing, ever.

"So." He pierced Potter with a forbidding glare. "Just…not right now, please. The Healer act—leave off. If you don't mind."

"Draco. Something's still not right with you." Potter sat right straight up and did push ahead with the 'Healer act' at him, which was a terribly, attractively, evilly wicked act to pull on an unsuspecting Veela who'd discovered a recent but definite kink for pristine white robes. "Something's...off. Even so."

"No, there isn't. Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not being ridiculous, mate. Look, I may only be a Paediatrician and I know you were just to the Clinic earlier but have you actually talked to the staff there? Told them anything pertinent? Actually discussed your current symptoms with them? Said to someone there that maybe that your two-year's old script's not working as well as it used to? Because clearly it's not."

Oh, Draco moaned internally. Sodding hell. This wasn't a good situation. By all means he needed to direct Potter's blasted Healer instincts elsewhere. He couldn't bear the scrutiny, else.

"Look, I just want you—"

"No, you look, Pot—er, Harry." Draco did his utmost to stifle all his misbehaving bits, from his stupidly perking-up dick to his half-swollen bollocks to his madly Mate-scenting Veela alter-ego, and appear just as he ever was when compelled to be in this man's company: cool, composed, friendly-courteous and completely untouchable. Aloof. "Stop. Stop this, right now, making a deal of this when Theo is right over there." His eyes slid to their small charge's person; Potter's eyes widened in appreciation as he his followed. "Stop butting in. It's working just as well as it ever did, alright? My dose hasn't changed one iota in the two years I've been administered it and there's no need to fiddle with it now, not just on your casual say-so. You need to let this go, Doctor. I'm fine; I'm perfectly in control and what's more, I'm not likely to jump your scrawny little bones, I solemnly promise and swear, my word as a Malfoy. Hades, I'm not likely to jump anyone, Potter! When I'm not sleeping or minding Theo, I'm working."

He sneered at Potter, just as the old Draco would've. Not that he wished to be nasty, but needs must. Summoned a disgusted snort, too, from out of nowhere. It was damnably difficult, as he'd really prefer to simply curl up at Potter's knee and have Potter pet him. Pet him and soothe him and take the constant pain away, for once and for all. And care at him, too.

"Draco." The hovering hand drew farther away from his person, thankfully. Draco dragged in a ragged breath. Crisis averted, then. "It's not—it's not that. Not just me being...being what I am. What I do, rather. And don't pull nasty faces at me, or act like a prat. I know better."

"Yes?" Draco, on high alert again instantly, snapped thumb and forefinger, settling back into his armchair. he crossed his legs at the ankle, knowing full well Potter didn't care for the look of it. "What is it, then? You always were poking your nose in where it didn't belong, all those years ago. You do it still, suspicious git. What, you do really doubt me, Potter? You think I'm lying to you about this or something? Well, don't—just don't. I'd never even think to fu-mess about with what I am, what I've become. Count on it. I'm pretty well a dangerous bloke to have about, Potter, if I don't constantly mind my own care. And it's no laughing matter, what goes on if my condition goes untreated. You may be very sure I am aware of it. I'd like to live, thanks. I have things to do yet."

He couldn't help but look over to his small cousin. Theo, his pride and his joy. His hope for the future.

"No…not so much that," Potter tilted his head consideringly, "either, as…well, as your overall health, Draco. It's that I'm conc—"

"My health in general is excellent, Potter. Never been better, in fact," Draco replied shortly. "Don't you worry your tiny mind over my vitals, please. Worry about your own welfare, please, exposed as you are to all those ailing brats of yours daily. I do hope you're employing your sanitary charms regularly?"

"Of course I am!" Potter looked horrified. "What do you take me for, Draco? A fool?"

"No!" As it happened, Draco at times despised that Potter had become a Healer. Healers were exposed to ever so many dangerous germs, so many horrendous diseases. What if Potter were to fall ill? What would Draco do then? "No, of course not. I'm sorry." He shook himself lightly, fighting back shudders, and clutched his tea cup tightly. "Look, Potter. You'll have to excuse me; I am a bit wiped still, I admit. Was a rough weekend."

"Was it?" Potter shrugged unhappily at him. "Alright, but still—"

"No. It's fine, as I keep telling you," Draco repeated dully, resigned. "It's all good, P-Harry, in every possible way, and now let's drop the subject, shall we? Theo's right over there, playing; has been all this time, and I'd rather he not overhear his family members sniping at one another. It's not seemly, for one and he's had a bit of a morning, too. Remember?"

"Aright, alright, sorry, I'll shut up." Potter nodded heavily, wary glance shooting over to check on a what was a still happily occupied small boy. "If you're sure."

"I'm positive. Really."

"Well, good." Potter emptied his cooling cuppa with a gulp and prepared to pour another. "Yes, alright, moving on." He motioned at Draco's abandoned cup, still sitting upon the small table at his elbow. "More for you? No? Well. Tell me about this rough weekend, will you? Bill said over the Floo last night it was a Banshee you had to put down, at least to start? Then what happened?"

"Mm, yes." Infinitesimally, Draco dared to relax. Here was something he and Potter could speak of without triggers, his work as a cursebreaker. It was fascinating work and he very much enjoyed it. Kept him terribly on-the-go, it did. Out of trouble, too. "Yes, yes, but not much of a Banshee, really. Not like bad old days. Nothing I couldn't handle, at least." Potter chuckled and Draco threw his mind into digging up the thrilling highlights of his most recent series of client cases. "It wasn't even the Banshee that was the main pain in my arse, it was the damned revolting Brownies up Piccadilly way."

"Brownies?" Potter's eyebrows arched up. He leant forward, seeming very interested indeed. "Revolting? Why revoting? I didn't think Brownies ever cursed anyone? Do they even…do…that?"

"Oh, for the love of bloody Salazar," Draco rolled his eyes. "Yes, they do! Magical Creatures, Second year stuff; surely you paid attention? No? Right, here, let me tell you—"

"Do."

Draco grinned at Potter's rapt expression and got on with his tale of how he'd singlehandedly cleared up a Brownie-Gone-Bad infestation that no sane Wizard could have ever anticipated developing. It wans't a surprise he felt wonderfully well whilst in the midst of his witty retelling: Potter smiling blazes at him all through, all teeth and sparkling eyes and excited twitches under those white robes—that was heaven to a Veela. Potter's throat very nicely on display when he tilted back his head to laugh aloud—that was a gift straight from Circe herself. The experience did Draco's latent Veela self very proud, and happily eradicated all traces of that persistent 'worried Healer' frown Potter stubbornly hung on to, the little git.

Eventually he and Theo were forced to go. Theo off to the Manor, lunch and lessons, Draco to work.

He wished he could always have the pleasure of diverting Potter, of engineering the small smiles and little giggles that left his chest throbbing, his head spinning. Be free to maybe even kiss Potter's worry lines out of existence, every night, every morning. But, no.

No. Life didn't work out that way, sometimes. Life was...was. It just...was.


	3. Chapter 3

**PART THREE/SIX**

Life physically pained a man, sometimes, in his well-bred arse.

"Po-Harry," Draco groaned, clutching his head and blinking rapidly at the intrusive light of morning. "What are you doing here, so early? What time is it, even? The crack of dawn?"

He'd begun the week already knackered. Now it was Saturday; he was headachy, faintly dizzy and the thrusting-out points of his shoulder blades were sore as anything. His skin itched to the point of insanity, his gut twisted constantly with dull nausea and his sleeping patterns were shot all to Hades. All in all, Draco Malfoy was plain old miserable. Thestral fodder, and a sick elderly Thestral at that.

He peered blearily the man on his doorsill, wondering vaguely what on earth had happened to Soupy, the Malfoy's ageing doorkeeper. "What's going on? Why are you here, Potter?"

"Hmm," Potter looked him up and down as he entered the Malfoy mansion foyer, edging 'round Draco's person to do so. "I'd say the question is more what are you doing here, on a weekend? Aren't you on duty?"

"Ah!"

Draco took a step back, involuntarily, his hands curling helplessly at his sides. It hurt. Oh, but it hurt, something sharpish. It wrenched his poor beleaguered heart in his chest cavity. Potter was avoiding him. Didn't wish to run across him; didn't care to lay eyes on him, even by accid—ah, duh!

Draco slapped his own forehead, provoking a quiet "Ow! Sod it!" on his part.

"Draco?"

"It's nothing."

Of course Potter wasn't expecting him: he, Draco Malfoy, worked weekends. Fifty-two of them a year, pretty much. It was only that he was ill and unexpectedly at home when he shouldn't normally be and that was why Potter was taken aback upon running across him. This wasn't rejection, not at all. Not that rejection was a real issue, either, not for Draco. The meds took care of all that nonsense, didn't they? All the weird cravings, all the really nasty side-effects?

"Draco?" Potter prompted sharply. "Shift over. I'm coming all the way in your silly great house, not just standing round on your doorstep with my thumb up my arse. Let me by?"

"Oh…yes," Draco muttered, falling back in the comforting dim of the foyer. "Right, right. Sorry, Po-Harry. Forgot what day it was, is all. 'Course you are. It's-"

"Saturday," Potter informed him succinctly. "Saturday, and you look like crap very poorly warmed over. See a Healer yet?"

"Uh, no," Draco shot back instantly, sarcastically. "No, course not. It's just a passing flu bug, Potter. Why would I?"

"Because." The accompanying snort was derisive, green-eyed gaze scalpel-like as it travelled up and down Draco's rumpled person. "Because it's a well-known fact that chemically suppressed Creatures are far more prone to succumb to passing infections and viruses, Draco, and the males get the very worst of it." He jabbed a passing fingertip into Draco's breastbone, hard enough to bruise. "Fact. Magical Creatures, second year stuff, don't you know?"

"Smart ass," Draco snorted, falling back another step. "Shut up."

"You, git. Now, you're not to play with your health, hear me? I won't have it. Have you let Bill know you weren't well?"

"Of course I did," Draco mumbled sulkily, following Potter out of the entry and into the first informal parlour, the West one. "Naturally. You-you're here for Theo, then? I'll ask Soupy to call—"

"Not so fast," Potter balked. "Sit down, will you? I want to take a look-see." He snagged Draco's elbow, causing the skin there to heat at the localized contact, so rapidly Draco believed his pyjama shirting might just sear off him. "You've been ticking me off with all this 'I'm fine, Potter' shit and now I want to look."

"Oi! Watch it!' Draco yelped, retreating fearfully. "I'm—it's—"

"It likely hurts, is what. All over, I'd imagine, given how you look. Which is, in my professional opinion, purely ghastly. Here, sit down, Draco. I'm examining you, like it or not."

"No!" Draco tried yanking Potter's hands off his person, nervous, but Potter's fingers tightened like a bloody vise. "No, P-Harry, I'd really rather you didn't. Not a good idea, not a good idea at all. I've been seen, besides. M'not stupid, okay? Went to Clinic again Tuesday. Now, you, please—you sit. You're the one supposed to be sitting, waiting. Hang on, I'll go fetch Theo for you—back in a tick."

"No. You." Potter's voice was commanding, irresistibly so. As were his hands. He had beautiful hard hands, competent ones. Gentle as anything. Draco groaned. "Down, Draco. Right now."

Draco, fuming, sat. Direct wishes from Potter lips to his ear; could do nothing to prevent. And even his arsecheeks hurt him, though the sofa was a particular cushy one. All due to Potter, blasted Potter, showing up like a bad knut when he wasn't expected. He wriggled about where he sat, scowling balefully up at Potter. Yes, alright. Everything hurt.

"No. There's no need—it's just a stupid old cold, Potter. It'll pass."

"You don't know that, Draco," Potter reproved, closing in on Draco's personal space, "and I do, being a certified medico, Muggle and Magical, and knowing about these things for a living, so shut your flapping trap for two seconds in a row and allow me to have a look at you. Sit still now. Give me your arm."

"I—no. No."

"Draco." Potter's hands and eyes were already about their business, searching out clues and tells. Taking possession of his arm, which throbbed the instant he touched it. "Don't be so damned difficult. Well, not more than you need."

"I—fine," Draco snapped, thrusting the other wrist out snippily, allowing Potter to lay fingers on his pulse. "Just for a moment, though. You're not my Healer, Potter."

"Of course not. Never said I was, did I? But I can still look at you; see what's up." Potter bent over him, wand waving, having subsided onto the divan as well, just the next cushion over and slightly catty-corner, so their kneecaps abutted. Draco stared fixedly past his bent head and at the wall opposite. He was dizzier with every sweep of Potter's wand, brush of Potter's potent magic. He would ignore Potter, then. That was all he could manage: conscious ignorance.

"Don't want you to," he grumbled despite himself, glaring at the harmless wallpaper. "Don't need you to. Didn't ask for this, Healer."

"Hmm," Potter hummed, not minding the grousing and poking Draco's chest with his wand tip. "Breathe in for me, Draco. Deep, now. And breathe out again—now. Right, good. Lungs all clear, which is excellent. Moving on."

"See? Perfectly well, I am. Leave me be, Po-Harry."

"Not near finished yet. Now lean toward me a bit, you great wanker, and turn sideways. I can't reach quite all of you, you're so…big. Why are you so big, anyway? Is it the condition? Hmm, I'll have to look it up. Lean more."

"Potter, you treat children, not Veela," Draco bit out, twisting as he was bent. "Don't bother yourself. Not for my sake."

"Turn, now. Turn more, Draco. I have to see to your back, given the way you keep hunching it. Is it painful, particularly? Does it feel hot?"

"Bother! No, it does not, thanks, and what a nuisance this is, Potter? Completely unnecessary."

"Mmn-hmm, right. Other way, please."

"Bugger this for a lark, Potter. I daresay forced exams are illegal, or something."

Draco did as he was told anyway, reluctantly arching this way and that way so as to allow the shorter man free rein to snoop round his spine.

"No, they're not. They're at the discretion of the physician and I am the physician. Stop chattering at me; you're distracting me, Draco."

"Oh, by all means, Potter! Whatever you like, then. Have at it."

"Thanks, I will."

Draco would have liked to advise Potter he wasn't so terribly broad, or so inhumanly tall, or the outsized Giant Potter had jokingly accused him of being back at St. Mungo's waiting room, but he didn't. Didn't dare, for fear his voice might crack. He'd not been using it, hadn't uttered much of anything to anyone since after his return to the Clinic Tuesday. Shortly after he'd escorted Theo home from his first swim lessons. And it was a good job he hadn't. Potter had no idea just how fortunate he was, really, given the Clinic's on-staff diagnostician's findings. And Draco had no intention of informing him, either.

"Hmmmm..."

He thoughtfully shoved his restless hands into his lap instead, disguising what lay between his legs. Potter always caused him embarrassing difficulties down there, suppressants or no suppressants. However, it was becoming rapidly evident the effect was leagues worse when he, Draco, wasn't up to par. He was more than half stiff and his respiration was increasingly irregular—and loud. He was bloody panting, almost in Potter's ear. Stuffy, too, as if he'd allergies.

"Potter," he muttered, shifting uncomfortably. "Potter, are you finished yet? Please be finished."

"You're all worked up, aren't you?" Potter questioned, at last drawing back to stare at Draco's flushed cheeks, his glassy eyes. "And your pulse-ox rate is a mad thing; numbers all over the map…hmm. You're so tense, too; all shivery with fever. Must feel pretty lousy, yeah?"

"I—no," he winced, flinching as Potter's one hand pressed firmly against his scowl. "I'm alright. Better than I was, actually." The other was laid gently across his nape and then down the ridge of his upper spine, busily rubbing small soothing circles. "No, Potter. Stop it now. There's really no call for this. It's a cold—nothing but a common cold. I can down another pepper-up and be right as rain in a moment, alright? There's no need."

"But you haven't," Potter replied, inarguably. "Or, if you have, it's not working as it should. Since I'm going to assume you're the same bloke you've always been, Draco, I'll also assume the Clinic doc's prescribed you a higher dosage on Tuesday and it's not effective either. And then you've gone and taken pepper-up and whatever else on your own advisement—and to no avail. So...yes. You're clearly ill and I really do need to know what it is that's bitten you so hard you're trembling with ague like an eighty year old man."

"No, you don't!" Draco ripped his hands from his lap, planning to use them to propel himself up off the couch and right out the room. "You don't need to, Potter; it's not your job. My own Healer is, thanks ever so, and it's none of your beeswax."

"Yes, I do, Draco," Potter rejoined immediately. "If nothing else, we really can't be having you staggering about all creation, breathing out germs everywhere willy-nilly. It's not good for Ted—or your mum or Aunty either. Moreover, it's a bloody insult to my profession, Draco Malfoy. Everyone knows you're related to a Healer. I can't have you sick, not like this. I just can't."

"Not related," Draco snarled, staring down at his clenched fingers distractedly. Somehow, he really needed Potter to admit that fact—that they weren't in fact related. Well, perhaps distantly, as all Wizarding families were, but not close. Not close enough to matter. "We're not related, Potter. By no means."

"Pardon?'

"Absolutely, positively not." Of all the things Potter had just said, including the implication that Draco had tried—and obviously failed—to self-medicate above and beyond what Healer had given him, this was for some reason the most irritating of all, Potter claiming to be his family. His Veela was fucking well frothing at the bit, wanting Draco to set the matter straight. Educate Potter, the arse. "We share no blood ties that I know of, Potter," Draco carried on, irrationally incensed. "Maybe, yes, just maybe we could be distant cousins through the Pruitts. In fact, likely are, because the Pruitts shagged basically everyone indiscriminately back in the eighteen-eighties, everyone knows that. But that doesn't give you the right to manhandle me—or manipulate me in my own home—and you can just take yourself and your bloody Healer certificate with you and go pound—"

"Fine, but you're babbling," Potter interjected sharply, shrugging off Draco's diatribe as if it were nothing much. "And I can't go anywhere yet; I've come to collect Teddy." He placed a palm on Draco's damp brow for the second time and Draco only just barely kept himself from pressing his aching head into it gratefully. It felt so amazing, so blessedly cool and dry. "Hmm. Also very, very hot; 40 degrees at least. Look, now, I'm not nearly finished with you. Get off that robe while you're at it. I may as well go the whole twelve leagues."

"What—what? No, Potter."

"Your robe, Draco." Potter flourished his wand, the Healer's band white as snow, white as Draco's waxy skin. "Now, please. It's in my way."

"…bloody pointless," Draco grumbled, scooting around for the second time. "…no need for this…"

"Hush, now."

"There!" he huffed after the requested manoeuvres were completed, very much aware that if Potter happened to check below the waist, he was sunk. He spread his fingers across his thighs quickly, just so, a shielding webbing. "Look all you like, Healer. Look until your eyeballs fall out and roll away, I don't give a bloody boot. There's nothing to see, I'm sure. Just that I've not showered recently, so if you're offended by the way I happen to smell, it's all on you, Potter. I'm certainly not asking you to invade my privacy. I'm asking you to—"

"Ahhh…hmmm. Huh." Potter's long drawn-out hum from behind his back was nerve shattering.

"Asking you to-what? What is it, Potter?" Draco struggled to crane his long neck by ninety additional impossible degrees and peer down the length of his own bared back. "What's wrong with me now?" he prodded. "Spots? Pox?"

"Well…" Potter sighed, his fingers probing gently into Draco's tender scapula one last time before falling away. "I'm not so sure about this, not being an expert, but..." He helped Draco shrug into his robe even as he frowned in a fretful way. "It's not pox or spots, no, nothing so simple, but…your back's very sore, isn't it? Especially in two places, here…and here." Draco flinched as Potter's hands came to clasp at the jut where his shoulder blades stuck out. "I bet it is, given these…ouch," he sighed in ready sympathy as Draco jolted under the lightest of touches to his exposed nape. "Yes, I'm so sorry. Must be no fun, Draco. Look, I really, really want you back at St. Mungo's, sooner rather than later, this time."

"Harry? What is it? What d' you see?" Draco was abruptly swamped with agitation. Which must be the fever's fault and not the fact that Potter lifted his hands away. "Oh, bugger, I don't care what you see. I don't have time for this, whatever it is. You know that, Potter? I am a busy man here, and this is a total drag," he scowled, fidgeting.

"I know, Draco, but you must take better care of yourself. This—" he waved a dire finger under Draco's nose in warning. "This isn't cutting it."

"Shit. Just...shit."

Draco groaned.

He was dying, wasn't he? Of course he was dying. Everyone like him did, especially when they were caught in a damnable situation like his. Eventually, suppressants or no suppressants, the bland soothing words of Tuesday's Healer or no, it would come. He was chronic, he was without a mate who wanted him. There was no long-term cure for what ailed him, and he knew it. Knew his time was measured, the threads unravelling almost as he counted them out. Shorter daily, every day that Potter persisted in not wanting him, not needing him, not satisfying the call of the stupid Veela Draco harboured. And now Potter didn't want to tell him, maybe? Out of some silly sense of pity for the poor expiring Veela, the manky, cranky, always ill-natured half-blood Wizard already set on the sure path to the hereafter and still lonely as fuckall, with no one to care for him in his last pathetic days. Certainly not—

"Don't be so put out, Draco. I'm sure we can fix it." Potter petted the backs of Draco's hands, right where they lay, disguising his prick. Er, hardly.

"Potter?" Of course he wasn't dying!

Draco sniffed miserably: the idea! There wasn't a thing wrong with that wasn't already well on the way to mend. Potter, however lovely, attractive and well-meaning, was an idiot, an interfering idiot.

"Uh? Yes? Right here, Draco."

"No. Enough. Enough of this! This!"

"Huh? Draco!"

Draco's teeth snapped. It was the last straw and he was no flying carpet, to take this nonsense of Potter's lying down. He couldn't bear it a second longer, none of it. He whipped upright, ramrod straight, removing his swelling privates out from beneath the pratly Potter's unthinking reach and promptly scuttled his person sideways across the cushions, ending up having stuffing himself into the corner angle of the long sofa, as physically as far from Potter as he could possibly be.

"What? Hey!" Potter wasn't understanding; he couldn't possibly, given where he'd come from, given his upbringing. And no in way in Merlin's Hundred Year Woods was Draco planning on telling him, either. Potter would just have to be ignorant. "Come back here, Draco. Don't be a ba—er. Um."

Draco wasn't coming back, no matter how pleading Potter might look, not if it meant Potter could touch him again. Touch him and not really care that it was draco he was touching. As if Potter's Veela were naught but another patient in a long line of same, a clinical conundrum to diagnose. Because a Veela who wasn't wanted was still a Veela who wanted and he was a Malfoy, besides. Potter—his precious Potty—would stay safely out of reach, then. He owed it to him, he did. No matter how good-hearted and caring and kind Potter was, he preferred it, not having a Veela to complicate his life.

And, Draco mused, sometimes having a known nasty temper could be a very helpful thing.

"No! I said 'no', Potter, and I meant it." He set his back teeth and gritted, glaring from the relative safety of his corner of the couch. He was actually angry at being pawed indiscriminately, even if it were Potter doing the pawing. "Leave off! That's enough, no more. No more touching me, no more diagnosing me."

"Draco, mate, don't be like that. Let me look at you, alright?" Potter extended a hand toward, coaxing. "Nearly all through, promise. It won't even pinch, I swear."

"No, no, and again no! Can you not hear me, Potty?"

Oh, but those earlobes, that throat and that wicked mouth above it, spouting drivel...that bloody hand, extended his direction!

Draco gathered all good sense and sensibility about him in a desperate grab, donning them like robes of State. Because also no—it couldn't quite be that serious, couldn't be. Whatever it was Potter had just seen on his back? Healer would've said. Blood would've told out, especially bad blood, Veela blood—for fuck's sake, his own mum would've mentioned it if she'd noticed he was toting about funny wing-y growths on his back and she'd only tutted disapprovingly over his dark circles and droopy posture and promptly taken her sister off to some brunch-y do with a bunch of other society Witches. No, no.

"Oh, I hear you," Potter replied, grim-faced. "I just can't believe it, a great big Wizard like you, afraid of a little prodding."

"I am not afrain, thank you." Draco narrowed his eyes at his visitor. Potter was a pain in the arse. And he? He was just…a little off, that was all, due to the infernal bug which had gotten hold of him. Nothing more.

"Well, then."

He took a quivering breath, expelling it sharply when Potter made an aborted move his way, as if to wrestle him back to wand's reach. "No more. I've said so. Because you're wrong, whatever you're thinking this is. Is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, I'm sure of it. I'm not dying, damn it!"

"Hang on, there." Potter shoved the flats of his palms up, beseeching. "No worries, Draco. It's not like that! Calm yourself, idiot. It's only you have these—"

"Stop bamming me about some mythical wing-things, Potty," Draco snorted, all about the scoffing, and rolled his eyes so Potter couldn't possibly help but to notice. "And cease acting as I'm about to die any moment now. I am not and have never been an idiot. Don't play with me."

"Oh, come on, Draco," Potter pasted on a pleading face. "No one has said a damn thing about dying! I just want to make sure you'll live, okay? Now, come back here, ike a rational chap. Let me finish; won't take but a moment."

Dying? Draco pondered. Maybe dying, yes. Dying every day, in a sense. True, his back had been super-itchy—perhaps a heat rash, from the persistent fever? Particularly at the place where the two flats of bone beneath his skin flexed as he moved; ever so unconfortable. And not only itchy but increasingly painful. Hot and aching and ever so—

Fuck! No, really?

"Dying?" Draco reeled, clutching at the padded armrest he was pressed against. "Potter...Harry? But—"

"You're not dying. Don't be ridiculous." Potter barked out a wry laugh and then sobered quickly, fixing Draco with a level look from behind the rounded twin shields of his silvery frames. "You've only gone and sprouted wing buds, Draco," he went on carefully, all the while sidling his arse closer to Draco's by scant inches, as if not to startle him. "It's what Veela do, sometimes. Even grown-up ones, like you."

"Like me?" he echoed sourly, scrunching up his eyebrows at Potter. "There's no one like me, Potter, and you know it."

"I do know," Potter sidled his arse over by one cushion-length. "You're special, mate." Draco flinched silently but held his ground, such as it was. Close by his reluctant patient again Potter bent his torso sideways the last little way and casually laid a warm gentle palm upon Draco's arm. He patted it, smiling, his eyes very kind. "Easy now, mate."

Draco sucked in a helpless breath. "Potter, I'm warning you."

"No, no, shhh. Please, Draco. I won't do anything you might not like, I promise you." Potter eyed him with friendly concern abounding in those green-as-bottle glass eyes. Draco slumped. Wet his lips and attempted not to twitch. Touch—any form of touch received from Potter, any time—was ambrosia to the Veela. Cruel nectar from an unseeing god. "Were you even aware?" his tormentor wanted to know, going on to slide the patting palm up the length of Draco's tensed arm and 'round to the back of one shoulder. "Did you feel them there?" He ever so lightly rubbed at one of the sore spots on Draco's back. "Because this—this is perhaps a little more serious than I thought, yeah."

Draco blinked down at his lap, drawn into listening, just simply listening as Potter went on and on, blathering at him in that caring way he had, patting away at him, here there and everywhere. Just as a proper Healer should do, especially one who worked with little kids. Pity he chose not to cure Draco, wasn't it? By way of really caring at him...for him. But then, Draco had never expected it to fall out in his favour, not after the first few marvellous moments, at least.

"Not unusual, really. It happens…hm. The ratios should be…one in thirty, wasn't it?" The Healer's thoughtful monologue trailed off into to quiet murmurings, as Potter considered what exactly Draco's Creature-characteristic suppressing potion should be doing and what it now obviously wasn't. "However…the V-Growth ratio to the overall Wizarding-white blood cell count, that's up signifantly…and then there's...oh, boy." He sighed and his searchig fingers came to rest in Draco's lap. "Hmm, but it's been years since I've followed the literature, so…hmm. Interesting."

Draco's cock did the expected thing: it firmed completely, visibly swelling behind the precarious cover of his pajama trousers. Again.

"Very interesting," Potter repeated, his gaze distant and certainly not trained on Draco's crotch. "I'll have to do some research, I think."

"Er? Ah? Interesting, you say?" Draco allowed his chin to bump down against his collarbone, aghast, his unruly erection momentarily forgotten. He glowered at Potter's profile from under a heavy brow line. "This is interesting? Research, you say? Hah! So glad I present you a professional puzzle, mate. So happy to be of service, Healer! And—and bloody wing buds, Potter? Impossible! It can't be. I'd have noticed them much earlier. You're mistaken, is all."

"Oh, Draco. I'm sorry." Potter patted him again. Practically patted Draco's cock right through the gaps between Draco's tightly laced knuckle bones. For real, not even noticing. Draco blinked at his bone-headed Mate. Was the man completely thick? "But it will be all right as rain in the end, I'm sure."

Sure, it would, Draco snarked silently. Truly. That's what his meds were for—to prevent this. Exactly this. To prevent him from being completely ruled by an accident of the blood, a genetic mishap he'd had nothing to do with and adamantly refused to allow to take over his life. To achieve a life, of sorts, away from Potter's. Even Mateless, he could manage. Even with his Mate sitting right next to him, so close to him and yet so far away the universe would be a more spannable measure.

Draco swallowed a quite nasty lump in his throat and blinked down at Potter's thumb. Was a bit blurry, the thumb; it must be the fever. It was, however, rubbing circles on the back of his hand. Bloody well hypnotic circles. Not an inch from his bits.

Draco hated him, sometimes. Potter.

"But, Draco…it is." Potter was so earnest, so focussed upon hm; how could not notice Draco's condition? "Remember Eighth Year Magical Creatures? We covered it then. It can happen. It's happening to you, mate."

"No way, Potter!" he exclaimed, scowling and shifting, nearly tipping over the arm of the sofa in his haste. "It can't be. I mean, I knew everything wasn't working as well as it has before, but it's just been doubled, my dosage. On Tuesday, it was. So—impossible! You're wrong!"

"Apparently not, sorry. I have eyes, Draco, as well as diploma, and I see what I see. Which is, thank you, wing buds, just breaking through, not to mention fluctuating fever, dehydration, nausea, balance issues and general distress. Hmm…right," Potter nodded absently, apparently mentally tallying up the remainder Draco's collection of symptoms. "That's it, and while it's not terrible, it is serious. I'm sorry, Draco, but it looks like a specialist is it for you; the Clinic Healers just aren't up to snuff. Do you need me to recommend one? Because Wurpinton's very decent and so is Weymerhiemer. And I'd like to suggest you also try downing some headache relief potions in the interim and stay well hydrated. The fever, you know? Need to control it, until you can arrange an appointment. And eat something, please, anything at all—you're much too thin. No sense in risking falling over from simple anaemia if you don't need."

"Er—Potter."

"Cold compresses for your shoulders wouldn't come amiss. Cool showers and lotion, too. Aloe vera." Potter had his eyes closed and was thoughtfully nodding along as he laid out instructions. "And really. Not to worry, Draco."

"Right." Draco glared. "Oh, absolutely. First thing, soon as you stop poking at me."

"No, I mean it." Potter smiled kindly at him, reaching out to ruffle Draco's sweaty fringe in passing. "I think it's probably all related, the sickness and the wing buds. A proper script and thorough going-over by a specialist ought to buck you right up, almost immediately. Just make sure you see one of the Healers I mentioned, soon as possible. Don't put it off, alright?"

"Ah—no—I. No." Draco shook his head sharply. Another hand in the proverbial cauldron would just complicate his life insanely; he was fine as he was. "Unnecessary, Po-Harry. The Clinic—"

"Pfft! Of course it's necessary. But it's also not such a big deal, you great infant. Settle down, Draco," Potter grinned down at him, hand absently trailing down Draco's arm and across a taut thigh to pat at his clenched fists. "It's not the end of the world, not by a long shot. And you will feel better soon, I'm sure of it. We just need to ensure you're on the right regimen."

Draco moaned.

"And I'll be sure to keep a better eye on you..."

Touch—oh, bad touch. Brilliantly, evilly, marvellous Potter-touch and far too much of it, exactly in the worst possible area, too. He was...he was, at long last, overloading.

"...Draco? Draco?..."

"No." There was a voice very far distant, but one he'd follow anywhere, anywhere at all. "No." He froze in place, shuddering from curling toe tips to hair follicles. Choked on thin air—nothing more than air. It came huffing back from his parted lips in a muffled whimper, tiny. He blushed.

"Oh, mate, you are in a bad way, aren't you?" Potter, the skeevy bastard, came closer. "There, there. Lean on me, now. It'll pass."

"...No…"

"Gods." Potter swore softly to himself, shaking his head, expression wry. "Relax! You'd thnk I just handed you down a death sentence and I haven't. Merlin, but you're always so intense over everything, Draco, too intense. You have to learn to ease up, to listen to your body when it tells you things. You'll live longer that way."

"Oh, god."

Potter, Draco realized hazily through the fog developing in his brain. Potter was petting him. And, though he'd not caught the spell, evidently offering him a cold glass of water.

"…No." Draco could not breathe. He certainly couldn't manage water. The touch had passed being barely bearable and gallivanted wildy out of control, to overwhelming, and he really would choke if Potter continued these meaningless caresses, which would be awful for everyone involved but especially him. "No, no, no…." he moaned inaudibly, bending his neck, stooping his idiot back with its equally idiot giveaway incipient wing buds, curling down upon himself as much as he could to cover the incredibly awkward boner he was positive Potter did not care to note but which he was also somehow unwittingly fondling.

Innocent as bloody sin, was Potter.

Draco would swear this was all a very nasty revenge, maybe for that one time with the Dementors. He knew Potter was both smart and sneaky. Could've been a Slytherin, or so he'd said, once. Draco had always wondered over him, after that. It explained a lot, really, about how he'd been so attracted even before the bloody Veela heritage chose to trash his life completely.

"No, please. I mean—yes." He made a monumental effort, clinging grimly to reason. "Yes, I'll go. I will go, I promise. On Monday I'll go, first thing. I'll do what you say, Potter. Only—please—stop. My skin—my skin hurts." He managed a shrug. "The fever, you know? Don't, er. Don't touch."

"Really?" The green eyes were disarmingly pleased. "You will?" But the hand stayed where it was, in Draco's lap, stroking mindlessly. "Thank you. That makes me feel better, mate."

Draco sighed. He could not, could not. Could not tolerate an instant more, no. Potter crooning formless phrases at him, "...easy now, easy now, Draco. It's alright," as if it would ever be alright. Laying hands on his dick through his pants and his beautiful Healer's hands not once flinching away from it either, nor from him, not at all. As though Potter didn't mind touching Draco there, in that one particular area…the very idea of that was dizzying to the point of insensibility.

But he had. Once. He had, and even reached for his—no!

Naturally, Draco struggled against the urge to roll his hips up and into Potter's hands, to lay his aching head on that convenient chest—he struggled like a man, not a puling Veela. But not like a Malfoy, either, much, because Malfoys were just so...very…above all that, weren't they? Displays of great affection, all that rot. At least, according to his father, they'd been. Once, long ago.

Not that his father had proved reliable, but it may've been the rush of hot shame that ultimately saved him, tearing him back from the edge of doing the unthinkable to Potter. He didn't know, didn't care either. Whatever worked.

"Yes—no! No, I meant I'll—I'll take care of it, Potter. I'm, um. I'm just going to call Soupy now, yeah? Theo's likely wondering where you are."

"Oh, hey. Super."

"Right."

Draco slowly pulled himself, sitting up. Did his best to inhale and exhale properly, pump a little blood into his brain. It was his brain that would save him from this unholy hell Potter was putting him through, all unknowing. It was his brain that would pull proper polite words from thin air and get on with the business of calling for Theodore and shooing Potter along, so Draco could collapse somewhere private and wank his dick the fuck off before he died from bloody wing-bud-itis and rampant Veelism.

"Good. Great." Excepting Potter, damn him, didn't stop touching Draco. There—right there.

Fuck.

It was so infuriating. He was so infuriating, Potter.

It was only that…Draco simply couldn't breathe. His mind spun useless circles, his bleary gaze stared fixedly. Potter touching him and Potter touching him there—it was a bit much to handle. Especially now, with his chemical defences all routed.

He was undone.

"Fantastic, even." Potter raised his chin and bloody smiled at Draco, grinned toothily as if he were proud of him. Terribly pleased with his behaviour. Utterly unbearable, that. "Now, where's out boy got to, Draco? Hate to be late for a date. You know how children always notice that sort of thing."

"Er?" Draco coughed, inhaling deeply of Potter's scent with a needy little rasp he couldn't for the life of him disguise. "D'you mind?" He arched a desperately ironic eyebrow at Potter, straining every frozen particle into stillness, into posture. "Could you not?"

"Yes?" Potter blinked at him. "Draco?"

"Couldn't you just…" He shrugged helplessly, because it was the last thing he wished for and the most sensible thing he must do. "Not-not?" he spat out finally, strangling the request as he blindly regarded the mess of digits in his lap. Straggling warmly all across his privates, which were so very interested indeed. How had he not come yet? Oh, yes—he was sick. Dehydrated. "…P-Please?"

"Not what?" Potter's green gaze was very bland when he glanced up to meet Draco's hot stare. "What are you asking me now, mate? The name of the specialist? Cause there's also Mahoney and—"

"You!" Draco thundered, frankly appalled. Shame and yes, anger. "Veela, here, remember?" Anger was good. "I am not your mate, Potter, and—and don't you dare touch me, either! Holding my hand, for god's sake! Groping me! Ridiculous!"

"What—groping?"

"Fuck this for a lark!"

He sprang up at last, ungainly with Potter's hand just there, grasping as it fell away, and dashed to stand swaying by the door, the blessed wonderful door.

"Ridiculous," he repeated firmly. Because it was. Yes. "This is."

"Draco?" Potter had the gall to look bewildered. The prat. "What's the mat—"

Draco took a deep breath, because this was just too much, the whole wretched situation, even for him to bear, and he needed to say. Needed to make it clear Potter was not to do that to him, not ever again. Potter didn't want him; Potter had no need of him. It had been made clear and Draco could more than take a hint. So Potter should stay the—bloody—hell—out of Draco's business.

Manners be damned.

"The matter?" he snarled, drawing himself up and up, standing tall as Potter claimed he was. And maybe with Veela blood it was a little more than most men, true, but Malfoys had also always been tall.

"Ye—"

"Hah! Is that what you're asking me, Potter? Now, damn you? Well!" he sneered, swinging into a sharp tight pacing circle, and snorted disgust, half-hysterical disbelieving laughter bubbling up his oesophagus, stifled at birth by will and will alone. "It's you, isn't it? Touching me! Don't you touch me like that, Potter, not unless you're looking for trouble. Don't you dare put your bloody hands all over my pants as if it's no big deal—because it is, and you damned well know it. It is for me, Potter; the way I am, and it's not like I can even help that—and then you, you being a fucking Healer, of all things! You should know this—I should not have to tell you! It is bad enough I feel this awful; I don't need you to come and torment me along with it. Have you no shame, Healer?"

Potter was stunned. Draco could feel it, as he could always feel a little bit of whatever Potter felt, whenever he was about.

"What? Wait a sec—I was just—I was only, er, examining…you. Uh, to see what's wrong, yeah? Draco? I am a Heal—"

"No! No more 'examining'—no more acting like you even care what's wrong with me, sod it!" Draco scowled blackly down at his uninvited guest, his stupid-head, idiot-oblivious bleeding-heart Mate, and clenched his bare toes tightly into the carpet, so painfully tight it grounded him, his fingertips curling into angry air quotes. "Examining, my arse! Just—just you wait, Potter. Wait here, alright? And I'll send Theo along to you and you can be on your merry way, the both of you—off to do whatever it is you do when I'm not around. And me—I'll be fine, right as rain; I always am. And forget it—forget all of this! Every moment, from start to stop. That you touched me, what you said. In fact, don't you dare waste another thought on me or my bloody stupid sickness, because the very first thing I'm doing come Monday is securing an appointment with one of your bloody specialists, Potter! I can't live this way, damn it—it's fucking unreasonable! And I can't bloody believe you don't know that! Come traipsing along and dispensing advice, like I'm some moronic teenager with a virus! Haven't realized what you do—what you always do to me! How dare you call yourself a Healer, you bloody blind insensitive berk? Merlin!"

"But, but, wait! Draco!" He heard Potter rising swiftly behind him as he stormed out. He didn't so much as look back, no. "Draco, stop! You, you can't just tear off like that!" Potter howled desperately. "Come back here!"

The voice faded away, thankfully. No. It was more that Potter's irritating pleas were cut off as Draco literally ran from the room, the door slamming into the wall and back again, reverberating, latching firmly with a final click. He bolted up the first flight, though his stupid, painfully thick-headed cock persisted in bouncing along between his thighs and wanting to veer back again like some bloody Potter-seeking device even as he legged it.

Up the next stage of the stairs to the wide landing, at a gallop. Then the next after that, after tearing round the landing at a trot—no, no.

Draco stumbled: he was sick, after all. He couldn't quite manage.

"Fuck!" he whispered weakly, lurching into the stairwell wall with a thump, both hands frantically shoving at his stupidly hopeful bits, pressing his dick firmly back behind the buttoned fly of his loosened sleep slacks and squeezing fretfully at his bollocks in a useless effort to ease them back into their former relaxed state. None of it helped. "Seriously? Fuck me! Fuck him."

Nothing helped. Couldn't think, couldn't breathe!

"….Why did I?" he asked uselessly of the cold, blank plaster, before forcibly dragging himself bodily back off the wall and up the stairs with the help of the banister. For if he didn't vacate as soon as possible, there was always a chance a persistent Potter might come looking for him. Potter was just like that, never giving up.

"Why do I always…?" he demanded of himself and of the deserted stairwell as he struggle to push one foot in front of the other, going away, away, even though Potter was but a few stories below him, beautiful and bewildered, likely.

"Why, Draco, you twat-for-brains, why for even for one single second do I always, always...?" he begged of himself for enlightenment, panting lightly as he relied more and more upon the wooden rail under his shaking hand to drag his treacherously achy body up the steps. Hic cheeks burnt with fever. Then instantly paled with the enourmity of shock of his own pathetic show of weakness before Potter. "Merlin, how humiliating that just was—horrible! …But why does he always have to simply happen along and screw with my head? Oh, gods! Fuck, fuck, fuck it already, the impossible bastard! Of course he does—it's Potter!"

Reality struck him, one plodding foot in the air: it was ever so far to reach his quarters yet and he didn't have the inner wherewithal to Apparate the distance, either.

He was weak as a Kneazle kitten and it was all Potter's fault.

"Potter…oh!" He halted abruptly halfway up the next lot of steps, staring at nothing much in particular, certainly not his precarious position, half up and half down, knuckles denting the wood of the stair rail. Sank down upon the tread as he thought of the oblivious man waiting below, likely wondering why on earth Draco Malfoy had up and lost his nut at him, had just verbally gone round the twist at him, literally out of bloody nowhere.

"Potter. He comes here." Draco sank, flowing into a semi-boneless heap, his knees creaky-achy and grateful for the break in sprinting uphill. "Potter, my Potter, he comes," Draco told the stairwell, "he comes here and drives me spare with smelling him and then he dares lay hands upon me as if I matter to him and then the git doesn't even notice what it is he does to me by simply breathing where I'm breathing, by bloody being where I'm being…and, oh, sod me." He lifted his limp hands fom his lap where they'd fallen, clenching them and making sloppy, useless fists, only to bring down again with a sullen thump on his kneecaps. "Sod this. How is this right, I ask you? How is this fair? It's pointless and it's stupid and it hurts and fucking Monday can't be here soon enough, damn it!"

It was a bad few moments, and some he didn't care to consider later, waiting for the shakes to pass, hot damp feverish forehead resting on his fists, fists curled upon his trembling knees. He was patient, though, as he'd learnt to be the hard way; breathing in and breathing out, till at last he could hike himself up to his feet again and summon up a pathetic excuse for a lordly bellow.

"Soupy!" he barked. "Soupy, you bloody piss-poor excuse for a doorkeeper, come here at once!"

"Master?" An elderly elf popped up before him, all smiles and bows. "Master Draco? Master, where were you? Master Harry is asking after your company, Master!"

"There you are, Soupy; I needed you an hour ago! And bugger Master Harry, I know he is. Makes no difference to me."

"So sorry, Master Draco!" The eld bobbed, bounced and gulped apologetically. "Master! How may I serve?"

"No matter," Draco snapped, waving it off. "It's nothing, it's only. Look, now, go off and find Theodore for me and then give him over to Potter. Theo's likely with Aunty, in the solar. Potter's in the morning room, the west one, and may he stay there! Good riddance! And then—" Draco inhaled roughly, shutting his eyes at the ache sweeling up behind his temples. "And then come straight back here to me when you're finished and help me to my damned rooms, will you? I'm not—I'm not feeling the thing, Soupy."

"At once, Master Draco!"


	4. Chapter 4

**PART THREE- &-ONE-HALF/SIX**

Ten hours sleep in a row proved beneficial for Draco's surface ailments. The fever had subsided a bit over time but he awoke famished, his throat parched and horribly clear-eyed. Likely due to bloody Healer Potter, the do-gooder, and his special effects. For every single spot where Potter had touched upon his person still held the vague, wispy remnants of a good warmth, the finest kind. Draco could indeed still feel them, and feel too the bitter-sweet memory of his mate's touch radiating out over his body, sending soothing waves to starved cells.

It was just gone two in the morning, an eerie o'clock that surprised Draco not at all. He was accustomed to the off-hours, he, and long periods spent locked in some old biddy's attic, some country squire's abandoned back garden oubliette or deep in the lower levels of Gringott's, where the sun never shone, had left him more than used to the half-life of night shift. At times, it was true, he felt more like a vamp than a Veela, much less a real honest-to-Brede Wizard, but that was an essential part of his job. He was a night owl, a dungeon dweller, comfortable in the dark and the haunted. It was his calling card, more like, that inimitable air of ease and his scholarly knowledge of the Old Magics, right along with the preternatural powers of cursebreaking his late-blooming Veela heritage had handed him, the one lonely bright gleam in the scourge of wanting-not-having Potter. Those were the attributes which had made him valuable to Weasley, sufficient to hire him and then to rapidly promote him up the ranks. And then someone had to be dedicated enough to grow the business and it fell to his lot to be that man, given Bill had a little daughter to care for.

Having eaten and drunk enough weak tea to float a curricle, courtesy of his faithful elves, Draco made his way to Theo's rooms, as was his wont when he was awake during the witching hours. It was comforting there, in his old nursery, still redolent of talcum powder and stuffed toy creatures, the aging parchment of his old bedraggled copy of the Bard, now even more well-thumbed with advent of Theodore. And the smell of that one small, terribly important boy, freshly washed and combed and sleeping sweet in his jimjams.

"Theo," Draco sighed ever so softly, seating himself gingerly on the edge of the bed, so as not to wake its occupant. "Scamp. Did you enjoy your time out with Potter? He's a sight for sorer eyes, isn't he? I daresay you did."

There was naught but silence as answer, the boy's quiet breathing the only sound other than the whisper of Draco's avuncular fingers carefully smoothing back a drift of Malfoy blond hair. Theo, when at home, was usually coloured grey-eyed and fair, just as was his extended family. And both Draco and his Mum appreciated the look. No—more than that. They required it, as it made little Ted Lupin more their own. Aunty Drom and Potter were so kind as to share him, but they'd never had to, never been forced by a court of law nor writ of will.

No, it was all and only that Potter was so bloody earnest, so absolutely square, and he'd realized, somehow, how very alone the last two remaining Malfoys had been, after the war and the nonsensical topsy-turvy of rebuilding a life amidst the ruins of a shattered thousand-year legacy. How direly they had been in need of a new focus, a little sliver of hope, of joy, in the brave new world they'd been thrust into. And Theo was proven all that, and more. He'd been a godsend to them, he and Aunty Drom both.

And Potter, of course Potter. Interfering Potter, wanting to be mates, wanting to mend fences. Inserting himself into the Manor, making a space for himself at their table, their hearth, in their lives, he and little Teddy Lupin. To the point where one day Draco had looked up, caught Potter's eye over Theo's playpen and realized he'd gained a friend. It had been lovely, that, until the day he'd been walloped sideways with needing ever so much more.

"I wish—I wish you were really mine, Ted."

Because of course it had never been 'Theo' or 'Theodore' but always Ted. Ted Lupin, after his grandfather, just as Draco was Lucius after his own father. Teddy, as Potter called him. And he and his mother had always been well aware, but Ted. 'Ted' was so not-Malfoy and really, they'd deserved a little more than merely Ted. Theo, then, and Potter and Aunty Drom had never once objected.

"Mine...and maybe...maybe Potter's. Ours, little man, to call our own. I wish."

"If I could," Draco blinked down at the barely visible gold-white tufts, the fluttering lashes, the crooked tilt of starched collar and it pained him, the useless wanting. "I would wish..."

Pained him so much he bent his head quickly to press a glancing kiss to the small unlined brow, the rounded cheek, the pert nose tip, snub as every child's. As if his wounded Veela was but another of Theo's little boo-boo's, healed with a kiss and spell, and then better, almost instantly.

"But it's all right, Theo, really it is." Draco cracked a wry smile in the dark. "You're perfect as you are, my teddy bear boy. Perfectly his, perfectly ours, me and Mum's. I couldn't—wouldn't—dare ask for more than this. Sleep, son. Sleep well and pleasant dreams."


	5. Chapter 5

**PART FOUR/SIX ******

"Son." Narcissa Malfoy regarded the rim of her tea cup clinically, as if checking for non-existent chips in the twenty-four karat gold rim. It was a quite elderly tea set, his mum's favourite, and had once been his great-great-plus three more greats-Aunty Grizzelda's. Her portrait was horrid but her antiques were very nice. "Darling?"

Draco stiffened. His week was not progressing at all well and it was only Thursday morning.

"…Yes, Mother?" He braced himself, taking a nibble of toast, slathered over with lime marmalade, and gazed blandly out the French doors and across the stretch of the balconied Promenade Walk, to the far distant tree line. Chewed methodically and terribly neatly and then swallowed, dabbing at the corner of his upper lip with his serviette. "What is it?"

His mother delicately cleared her throat.

"I understand that our poor dear Harry ran into some, ah...static from you this last Saturday, when he called in to retrieve our young charge. Andromeda mentioned to me he seemed a bit…ah, unsettled, after he spoke with you. Perhaps even so far as...upset. Soupy tells me you were the one to admit him entry? You two have argued, then?"

"Yes, well, about that…" Draco dropped his chin, half-shuttering his gaze. "No. No, not at all. Just a bit of a dust-up, that's all. Minor misunderstanding. All settled now."

"Really." Narcissa's response was flat. One pencil-thin eyebrow climbed dangerously high, though.

Draco frowned. There were numerous crumbs strewn upon the tablecloth, directly due to the overabundance of streusel on the coffee cake-raspberry tart confection his mother seemed to favour above all breakfast foods. Draco was a steel-cut oatmeal or plain buttered wheat toast man himself and only perhaps sometimes—but very seldom, these days—an aficionado of the classic fry-up. Eggs and bacon, kippers and—he swallowed again, with difficulty. Food of any sort seemed suddenly a total anathema. His appetite had fled with the arrival of his mother's intently concerned stare.

"It was nothing, Mother. I…was not at my best, perhaps, still feeling unwell, and sadly Potter caught the brunt of it."

Potter. He didn't want food. He wanted Potter.

"Indeed."

Draco set his cup down to refill it and kept his eyes well away from his mother's face as he poured out, neatly jogging the pot to avoid the inevitable drip. His mother was a formidably clever woman, blast her, no less so with several years of widowhood under her proverbial chatelaine, and he was convinced she knew far more about the events of Saturday morning—and her son's Monday emergency appointment with Healer—than she was letting on.

"Draco, it is not Harry's fault that he's a Healer. It is his vocation, what he has diligently trained for, and you were ill. Naturally he was concerned for you—"

"I know that, Mother!" Draco sprang up, dusting down his lap and slapping his barely used serviette on the table, abandoning his second cup as a lost cause. "Of course it isn't," he went on, as placidly as possible, straightening his shoulders under the unrelenting stare, stretching them so wide they actually panged him. Or perhaps that was his wings, from the awkward way he'd slept the night before, curled up round a pillow. "His fault. Ridiculous notion. And I'm not saying it was, alright?"

His back ached anyway, naturally, because of his slowly deteriorating inherited condition, wing buds and all, but the ache was bearable again, at least. His persistent fever was at last brought down again to a manageable level; he was healthy once more, by any measure. Well on his way to leaping over this last most recent hurdle in his unhappily eventful existence.

"Hmm."

He inhaled; he'd need the extra jolt of oxygen, he knew, as his mother seemed quite sceptical of his account. Certainly she wasn't diverted from whatever it was on her mind.

"Mother, it's certainly nothing to do with him; just an accident of nature is all. I was sick. He happened to come. He insisted on examining me, though he's a paediatrician and I am a grown man. I was—I was perhaps a little harsh, over that. Perhaps some of our…conversational topics may have…struck a nerve. But that's nothing to do with him. Not his fault at all. And surely you cannot seriously be imagining I'm blaming him for it? I am not so unreasonable, Mother. I was ill. I've already sent a note to him, apologizing."

Because that would be appalling, blaming Potter. It sent a cold prickle through his gut to imagine blaming Harry Potter for anything. Even now. Potter had never asked for any of this—he'd never—they wouldn't—it was all exactly as Draco had just assured his mum: an accident. Freak of nature; a blip on his blotter of good behaviour.

Nothing more.

"Darling." Draco swallowed; his mother was inexorable determined when she wished to be. "Still. This cannot go on. You must do something—anything—to fix it up. A note is not enough. Belt up, Draco. Be sensible."

"What do you mean, Mother?" Draco didn't actually wish to know what she meant, but it seemed better to ask and be proactive, at least. "'Be sensible'? Because it appears to be going quite well, thank you. I've never been more sensible than I am now, thanks. I have my work, which is more than lucrative. I have the estate to tend. We have our dear Theo and Aunty to care for. We are very well off, considering."

"Piffle, darling," his mother snorted delicately. "You can't fool me. That's not at all to which I refer."

"What, Mum?" Draco curled a lip. "What is this mysterious item to which you refer? Enlighten me, as I am still completely confounded."

"Pish, tosh, son." Narcissa tittered lightly. "It is simply this. It's been more than two years now, Draco, since you were diagnosed with your condition."

"Yes? So?"

"Eventually it will come to pass where there won't be a single potion in the world that will prevent this—this disease of the blood from ravaging you." Narcissa never looked away, never allowed Draco the chance to glance away. "Unto death, my son. I am…I am naturally enough only concerned for your sake, Draco. You are my very much beloved boy, just as our little Theo is yours and Harry's. I will not stand down and watch you suffer. I will not countenance the thought of your death, not before mine own."

"…Mother." Draco blinked. One cup of Assam was not sufficient to prepare him for this. He'd the sneaking notion there could never be enough tea to prepare him for this. "Mother, no—"

"You must speak with Harry." She was demonstrably distressed, fine lines drawn taut about her pretty mouth and delicate nose, her smooth forehead prematurely wrinkled. "You simply must address this bluntly, Draco," she pressed on. "Confront your problem instead of running away."

"There is…nothing to address, Mother. Nothing."

Draco stood as if petrified, excepting his fingertips curling down hard upon his palms, nails gouging flesh, but hidden from his mother's sharp eyes where he'd clenched them behind his back, interlacing his knuckles till they were painfully bloodless, mashed together in a cold knot. These were the selfsame hands Potter had held, just recently. He'd not wanted to wash them, after, and was that not insane? He could still feel every touch of Potter's hands upon him and was that not humiliating?

The only thing worse—the most horrible of visions in his mind's eye—was the picture of himself, telling Potter just exactly why it was he was always so distracted anymore, always rushing out when Potter popped by home, always in a hurry to be anywhere other than where Potter might be.

"Draco."

"Or confront. Not a thing, I assure you." His stomach churned and the toast performed a disagreeable flip in his gut. "Potter doesn't—he isn't—there is nothing to address."

"Draco, does he even really know?" His mother also rose, her cup forgotten, her eyes direct. "The extent of this? What you've already been through?"

"I. No, Mother. No." Draco wished he could say honestly that Potter knew. But he likely did not, given the Muggles in his background. It was true, certainly, that Veela-blood and the like were not Potter's specialty; Wizarding and half-blood children were. But to admit that would also admit a certain weakness in his specious logic, in his actions. His, for not saying. For never daring to say, after that first set of confused moments when it had overwhelmed him, literally. Potter's, for not knowing to pursue it. For not knowing that there was even something to pursue. And it was never Potter's fault that this was so. "I—I don't believe so. Not as such."

"Draco, you are deflecting me," his mother said bluntly. "I do not at all appreciate it. The issue at hand is not that Harry doesn't, but that you, the responsible one, the one who knows, have. Not. Told. Him."

Draco had no reproof, could only glare at her.

She looked him over, from the persistently wretched paleness of his complexion, which could no longer be blamed solely on fatigue from his job or his normal fair colouring, to the thinness of his lanky frame, unnaturally slim now, for he'd been losing weight steadily. She examined minutely the lingering tension in his eyes, where they met and mirrored hers steadily across the remnants of the morning meal. His lifeless hair, the odd new hunch across the breadth of his shoulders. Odd, because yes, he'd gained an extra inch or two recently. Potter was correct—he was taller, something of a giant, sometimes, but especially around Potter. Larger than life. A sport. Veela. They postured to impress their mates, especially the males.

Draco blinked slowly, silent. If one did not look too closely, he was still very much Malfoy. A Wizard, that was all. Even so, the part of him that was Veela had never been so far buried, so wrapt tight under the impossible weight of his mother's judging gaze.

She scowled.

"What's been done to you—is happening now? Have you…" she grimaced faintly, her features smoothing neatly into their usual lines, composed. "Have you even thought to speak to him about it at all, my darling? In all this time? Because I can't imagine he wouldn't care, son. It is Potter—Harry, Draco. You know how he is. He feels, Draco. Always so very much."

Draco outright snorted at his beloved mother; he couldn't help it.

"Pfft! You know exactly what came of the one and only time it was ever an issue of discussion between us, Mother. If you might call that a discussion—hah!" He flung himself a step backwards, all of a piece even in retreat . No—defeat. His mother was winning. "You were summoned to the hospital immediately after, weren't you, to collect me, cart me away? Of course I've not brought it up since. I would never mention it to Potter. That would horribly awkward. It is exactly the last thing he needs, Mother. The very last thing."

"Awkward?" Narcissa snarled in return, refined hackles raised. Her nails clacked against her tea cup. "This. This goes beyond awkward." Gestured with fluttering hand at the wealth of available physical evidence, undeniable, Potter's most recent visit had left behind him: bright eyes and quivering tendons. Draco's fingers always finding those warm spots, convulsively. "Draco, my dearest boy, I still don't believe jumping right into a strong course of suppressants was the most beneficial cour—"

"What was I to do, Mother?" he snapped loudly. "Roll over and die, right then and there in the Paediatrics Waiting Room? Ahahaha! I don't think so!"

He leant forward to match her, planting his hands flat on the table, and literally willed her with all his might to drop this useless enquiry. For his sake—for Potter's.

Potter was his, to care for, to love. To protect. Inviolate, even from his beloved Mum. His Veela, bloody beast, demanded it. But Wizard Malfoy had no objection, no.

There was one thing, at least, they agreed upon. Him and his Veela.

"Look here, Mum, it happens all the time, alright? Some silly sod's really a Creature and doesn't know it till it's too damned late. The idiot arse springs his damnably unexpected Veela self on someone who's got not the slightest clue, practically climbs all over them and molests them in a public place because he can't—I—he—simply isn't able to—" his teeth gritted—"to help himself, and then the other one's very naturally shocked. To the core, Mother, that innocent man is shocked. And of course resistant as all get out to the notion of sharing their—his brilliant heroic life with the likes of me and he says 'no', doesn't he? Doesn't he? Clear as a bell, simple as anything, and then me—you—if you've a brain in your head and if you want a half a chance at a normal life, Mother—you go about your own business and try to move on. Which is exactly what I've done! Been doing, Mother."

He growled, a deep rich rumble pounding his chest from within, rendering him without words for a second as she stared and stared and he waited, swaying under the pounding-down wave of unfairness blanketing his vision and blinking rapidly. Barrelled on into speech before she could open her bloody mouth and suggest something, some reasonable—

"Dr—"

"Doing the best I can here, Mum," he bit out and knew his teeth had gone funny, like his pupils. Oh, well, couldn't be helped. "Every single day I do it, all this time. And for fuck's sake, Mother, if you want to blame anyone for this whole debacle, you can blame Father. It was his impure forebears that brought this on in the first place, frigging contrary prick he was!"

"Do not," his mother ordered frigidly, her spine suddenly gone steel-rod, "disrespect your father's memory, Draco. It was hardly well known in the family that there was this—this upstart Veela heritage lurking unsuspected all this time. Certainly if your father had known of it, if he'd the slightest of inklings you'd be the one affected, he would've never—"

"Oh, wouldn't he?" Draco humped a tense shoulder and chuckled bitterly, drowning her out. "Yes, yes, I know, Mother—I know it well, the whole sad tale, the one you comfort yourself with. Such a good, steady man! Such a wonderful provider! He'd likely have never have joined up with the slit-nosed monster if he'd but known it, and Harry Potter and I would've had quite a different story between us. I'm so fucking bloody sure—hah!"

"Draco," his mother said softly, a hint of maternal warning colouring her voice. "Draco, don't."

"But it's amusing. Don't you think it's so amusing, Mother?"

He ignored the narrowed blink, the twitch of her nails on the gilt edge of the cup. Pulled a ghastly face at her, a clownish grimace, removing his own fingernails carefully from the holes they'd dug through the cloth and straight into the fine polished wood of the table underneath, scarring it. Raised his sharpened jaw and took a single step backwards and away from his infuriating mater, a wobbly leer disfiguring his features almost to the point of unrecognizability. And then another, retreating.

"A fairytale, Mum. Just like a fairytale. Potter and me. Beauty and the Beast, is it?"

Gods, but his back hurt. His joints, his chest, his very skin and teeth.

"Right," he growled, angry at his Mum's unwavering glare, "and if that had turned out, pretty lie that would be, we'd've been the best of mates, Harry and I, all along, and of course he would've been nothing but joyful to be discovered to be mine, my very own, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he?"

"Harry would," his mother answered smartly, never cowed. "Harry is very." Stopped, swallowing, dropping her gaze at long last. "I mean, I'm sure Harry would—care." She blinked. Regarded her son with welling eyes. "For. You."

"Wouldn't he, though?"

Draco couldn't stop. He was speaking and speaking, on and on like a bitter river, sarcasm ladled in gluts over every syllable, rolling his eyes at his mother, snapping his finger and thumb for emphasis now and again. He couldn't stop.

"Wouldn't he? I likely would've been stuck to his side all that time, all those years, instead of that idiot Weasley, in place of being set up in direct opposition to him through no fucking fault of my own! It would have been only natural, wouldn't it—he and me, together, all those years? Friends from the start, from the moment I met up with him—more than friends, Mum. Mine, my Harry." He drew a harsh breath; snorted it out. "Can't you just imagine it? A happy couple to end all happy couples—a Malfoy and a Potter? And you'd have been over the moon, I'm positive you would, planning the wedding by now, you and Aunty—if we weren't already bonded right out of Hogwarts. It'd be all sweetness and light, my life, my world. Just like Potter is, the git." He tried to swallow, naturally, but it was impossible, beyond him. "And dear Father would've been so proud of me. He always told me to suck up to Potter, didn't he? D'you remember that, Mum? Hah, I say again. What a joke. What a horrible, horrible joke. Do dream on, Mother—it's never going to happen, any of it, not in this lifetime."

Narcissa Malfoy visibly gathered her wits together; she was made of sterner stuff.

"My dear," She pointed a finger at her son. "Do not take this lightly. Don't you dare jest with me over what can and cannot be, Draco. I have seen a great deal more in my years than the likes of you, son. It is not a bit of it impossible, none of it. You can be happy, Draco, if only—"

"If only? But, Mum! You've never seen that, have you? Seen me happy, seen me wanting to keep on breathing, day in and day out?" Draco narrowed his eyes at her, his upper lip curling sourly. Fell back another step, for this was failing. "It is a joke, Mum, isn't it? That's all it is, alright?" he demanded fiercely; rhetorically only, because of course Fate had it in for him and had all along. His own Mother knew that—how could she not? None of them were fools, the Malfoys, only misguided. "A great cosmic fucking joke is all. That this would happen to me, this idiot curse on our house and on me, the last of it, and that he would even consider I might be someone who he could ever even—look. No."

"Draco!"

"No. Stop."

Draco went still, struck by all the endless marvellous fantasies of the life he would never have, the world he'd never know, one that included Potter, intimately. It was gutting, but he must bear with it. Must go on, despite the hand he'd been dealt.

"No. Impossible."

"Son—"

Potter had been within a scant second of drawing his wand on Draco. He'd not wanted it; had hated it.

Draco took another pace away from the table, made it a business of shaking back his sleeve and examining his watch face. It read a quarter till eleven and he was to meet Potter at five of, with Theo in tow, togged out in swim gear. Lessons on Tuesday had been gruelling enough. He'd not known what to say after his rude outburst on Saturday morning, his idiotic behaviour the week before, and Potter—Potter had been polite and kindly in the face of his hard-fought calm, a professional to the utmost, and said nothing at all to him. Nothing.

Had only smiled his usual polite-company Healer smile and grasped Draco's hand in a brief shake of greeting as he always did (did he know Draco lived for that—did he?) and taken little Theo away to meet the hospital's volunteer swimming instructor with nary a comment. Hadn't asked after Draco's appointment or the new potion that allowed him to hold Potter's fingers without clinging like a fool. Had not cared...had not cared.

Didn't know to. And Draco's stupid proud Veela could not, would not, tell him.

"There are ways and ways, Draco," Narcissa Malfoy insisted. "You're simply too close on the problem."

"Look, no, Mum. Stop," Draco begged. "Stop talking about it, stop grilling me, and stop thinking about ways you can interfere in the whole sorry mess at this late date. It's done for, Mum. Over, case closed—never even open to begin with—pointless. In fact it's so pointless it's funny." He laughed, but it wasn't amusing. Not at all. "Nothing's likely to change, ever, and I literally don't have time for this right now." Which was plain truth and nothing but. "Look, I've to escort Theo over to Mungo's right this minute if we're not to be late for his lesson, so we really do have to table your in-depth exploration of my private woes, Mum. Potter will be furious with me as it is. He has a schedule; he's a Healer, and a good one."

"Oh, Draco, my dear boy…" His mother sighed tiredly, gracefully sliding back into her seat at the table and taking up her cup. "My little Dragon." She waved it at him. "Oh, my dearest son, how you do go on. Of course he's a good Healer and of course he isn't to be disturbed unduly…and that's not at all what I meant—nor was that the reaction I was reaching for, truly. I'd no intention of upsetting you so, my darling little Dragon—nor of causing you pain unnecessarily. It is only that Harry needs to know. He needs it, Dragon, as much as you do. It's only fa-"

"Oh?" Draco prodded nastily, his hackles well-raised and not even thinking of subsiding. It was Potter he was protecting, after all. "Fair? What's fair, Mum? Nothing, I think. Or is it…is it that you were curious, Mother?" He was in a horrid mood now; a vicious black state of being. The knowledge he'd be seeing Potter so soon again wasn't helping. Another strain on his precious resources. "And if not curious and poking your nose into what doesn't concern you, then what was this little discussion in aid of?"

He struggled to rearrange his face into something pleasant, something suitably bland; Theo would be released from his nanny elf any moment; come scrambling down the stairs like a miniature hurricane and then—and then, Potter. Bloody Potter.

"Really, now?" he persisted. "What were you attempting to accomplish here, Mother dearest? Other than ruin my breakfast."

"Draco, my dear." His mother gazed at him very seriously, her still lovely face settling into lines of determination. "One more thing, my love. One favour, if you will."

"Mother!"

Draco was outraged. But she was not to be put off, not that she ever was. "I need to ask this of you; I need it to be clear to me, please, for once and for all, as I've never understood it. When it happened, the Incident, what did Harry say to you, exactly? What convinced you he wanted nothing to do with you?"

Draco flinched. Shied another step without conscious volition, rocking back on his heels. It panged him so very badly, even now, to recall.

"He said," and he was well aware his voice was raw but there was nothing he could do about it. "He said 'not like this.' He said 'no, Malfoy' and he pushed me off and he—he went so far as to go for his damned wand as if I'd ever—I'd ever even think of—could imagine—"

He shut his rebel mouth with an audible snap, back of his hand pressed to the seam of lips, because the very next sound out of him would be a heartrending sob and he'd sworn never, ever to do that again. Not before his mother. Not due to his beautiful unobtainable Potter and not due to anyone. He was his own man; he'd have to be.

"Draco, no! He wouldn't have!" With a flapping of hands and the subtle wrinkle of her elegant nose, his mother made as if she could hardly bear to entertain the image her son was suggesting. "He'd never have stunned you?"

"Oh…yes." He could feel his traitorous lips, pulled up the corners in a travesty of wry amusement. "Yes, Mum."

Thank Merlin. The doorframe had met his spine sometime in the last moment or two or he'd have stumbled walking, would've sagged into a heap of sparking brilliant sharp pain shards right where he was, directly before the eyes of his appalled mother and any spare house elves hovering, the portraits and perhaps Aunty and Theo. Everyone.

"Mmm." As it was, hs languid wave didn't approach conveying properly his total acceptance of Potter's remembered negation. He'd rather expected it, hadn't he, going in? And it had been a self-fulfilling prophecy.

"Draco," his mother was no nonsense about it, a paragon of matronly wisdom. "I can't believe it. Surely not."

"Yes, he probably would've, Mum." Once again the hideous cackle bubbled up his throat, choking him with lime-marmalade flavoured bile. "And I wouldn't have blamed him, either, faced with that—with m-me, like that. And then—and then Lovegood came along and got me away from him. Bustled me off and handed me straight over to that husband of hers, Rolf Something, in Creature Care, and he stuck a bloody giant needle in my bloody arm and I could think again. Think, Mother. Finally."

Dead silence reigned for a moment, but Draco couldn't help but break it.

"Do you understand?"

He threw up both hands uselessly and heard behind him faintly the clatter of little feet, pounding down the grand stairwell, flight after flight. Theo, almost upon them. His mother had her fingers pressed hard to her forehead, a sure indication she'd one of her migraines coming on. As if to drop the hint discreetly that this was upsetting her and that Draco must be somehow making too much of it. Must be mistaken, somehow. But...he was not mistaken.

How could he be mistaken when Potter had...Potter said no?

"What it meant—means to me now, Mum?"

"Draco! Dragon!"

But he wasn't. Not blind, not dumb, not stupid. Well aware, thanks, and still the bitter words wouldn't cease.

"Think of the wretched fool I'd made of myself before him, Mum. And think how it could've been far worse, what I might have gone and done to our precious Potter, if I'd not been stopped—if he'd not said…said what he said." He dragged in a rough rasping breath, scrubbing a lax hand across his brow; it came away damp with perspiration. He stared at it blankly for a second, his mouth moving, yet more words tumbling out bleakly. "Prevented me. Imagine my relief, won't you? I was fortunate, Mum—really I was. So. Damnably. Fortunate."

"No! Never, Draco! Not like that!"

His mother was kneeling at his side in a rush of silk wrapper, her lacy night cap fluttering off her perfectly dressed hair to fall behind her flopping mules, unheeded. Somehow he had indeed fallen, his back sliding down the doorjamb, his knees rubbery.

"My son—my son!"

Draco struggled fretfully, as he always did when someone not Potter—or Ted, Potter's godson, and of his blood magically—touched him. He was meant to be handled only by his Mate. But this would never do. This was his Mum, whom he adored.

But couldn't manage.

"Exactly like that, Mother. Why do you—" He laughed as he shivered, skin pimpling coldly under his very nice business robes, or perhaps it was more he expelled a creaky noise that might've been laughter. Stillborn mirth, a tragedy mask turned upside down. "Why d'you think I'm on the potion?"

"My love," his mother cooed, all maternal hackles raised, on high alert as she'd not been when she believed him merely foolish. She forcibly drew his aching head against her breast, as she had done when he was but a child, and stroked it softly. "My poor little Dragon."

"Please, Mum," Draco protested, pushing away as soon as he could blink away the cloud of familiar cologne. "Don't."

He inched his painful spine up the frame and lurched onto the flat of his feet through sheer bloody-mindedness. No help for it. Theo was coming; he'd be required. Batted carefully away his mother's manicured hands.

"Please don't. You make too much of it. I'm fine."

"But—my Dragon," she protested, eyes pleading as she withdrew, allowing him his freedom. "There must be something we can do."

"No." Draco shook his head slowly. Smoothed his hair, settled his robes. Theo was coming. "Please, Mum—it's alright. Can't you see it's alright, I'm accustomed? I'm not your poor little anything, not now, not ever again. I don't need this—this. What you're doing. Trying to do for me." He raised his hand, as if to ward off whatever that expression was all over his mother's face, closed his eyes to it briefly for relief. But he was right back to staring her down as he dragged himself to his feet, ungainly and awkward with all the tightly coiled tension within. "I'll be…I'll be well enough. I am well, better already since Healer increased my dosage. And I'm an adult, Mum, all grown up and I've been coping a long while now—and nothing will change that, I'm sure. I'll manage. And here's our lad now—right on time, excellent! Hullo, little man. Good morning."

"Uncle Draco!"

For he was indeed arrived, Draco's small cousin, erupting into the room with a glad shout and a flurry of towelling fluttering out of his not-quite-zippered sport bag. Nearly knocking his poor Uncle Draco right off his pins, too, as he bustled past to snag a taste of his aunt's favourite cake.

"G'morning, Aunt Cissy!" he bellowed, chewing rapidly. "G'morning, Uncle Draco! Uncle Draco! It's time to go now!"

"Hullo, darling." Narcissa swept the little boy into a passing embrace as he whirled about her, pressing a fond kiss to his lavender hair and whisking off stray crumbs as she went. "Good morning to you. Have you had your breakfast?"

"No! Yes! I mean, t'other way round!" Theo bounced upon his heels, frowning. "Oh, and Grandmere's on her way down, Aunty! She said for me to tell you, so I'm telling you, okay? And I had toast and eggs already. Ages ago! Unc Draco!" A whirlwind of small limbs attached itself to Draco's one leg, ruthlessly tugging the crease of his trousers out of alignment. Two pleading purple eyes stared up at him. "We have to go, Uncle Draco! It's Thursday!"

"Yes, of course it is." Draco managed to summon a smile for his favourite boy. "All day long, poppet."

And he knew with a pang there would never be any other children dwelling again in Malfoy Manor but this one little boy, because Draco wanted only Potter and Potter didn't ever want him and he was absolutely fucking bloody spot on alright with it, he was.

He was. But he was just….and they were late, now. Of all things, Draco abhorred being late.

"Time to be off, scamp." Perhaps his smile was a bit sickly round the edges. Perhaps it was that his entire expression was plastic and faked, and mayhap a bit frightening withal, because Theo shrank into himself almost imperceptibly even as Draco swung him up in his arms and settled him comfortably on his one hip for the Floo journey. Noting it, Draco frowned, bumping the tips of their noses in quick comfort. "Oh, no, not to worry, Theo; nothing's wrong—not a thing. Uncle Draco just has a spot of a headache, this morning. That's it."

"Oh. O…kay." Theo stared at him for a moment and then carefully patted a grubby boy-hand to his cheek. "There, Uncle Draco—all better. May we go now, please, please, please? I've been waiting this age!"

"Of…course." Draco blinked himself back into a state of blandness, composure. Returned the affectionately strangling squeeze his nevvie gave his neck with interest. There went the starch in his collar, ruined. "Let us find Uncle Harry right now, shall we? He'll be expecting you, I imagine, these five minutes past."

"Draco?" His mother had her 'means-business' face pasted on. "Draco, dear, before you go—"

"Yay!" Theo bellowed in his ear, thankfully distracting him. "I love you, Uncle Draco! Let's go, let's go, let's go, go, go, go!"

"-I'd like a word, Draco—oh! Good morning, Andy."

Andromeda Tonks bustled into the room, heels tapping. "A lovely day, dears!"

"Bye-bye, Grandmere!" Theo shouted. "We're going now!"

"Good man. Good morning, Aunty." Draco nodded to his aunt as he swung his small burden about, the sport bag banging his hip. "Can't stay, sorry. Now, hang tight to me, Theo. Don't let go. Ready? Here we go."

"Son! Before you go—"

"No time, Mother, sorry."

It was fortunate there was a large enough hearth for flooing tucked there right in the breakfast room because Draco couldn't vacate it fast enough—not nearly.


	6. Chapter 6

**PART FOUR & ONE HALF/SIX**

Draco met with his senior partner, Bill, right after dropping Theo off to Potter. It was a comfortable chat, dealing mostly with the mad scramble to make up the time Draco had lost to his illness, and they'd consumed nasty office tea and stale cheap office biscuits as they worked out a plan. Draco ended with taking on a hellish schedule for the remainder of the week, a prospect he greeted with a wide and gleeful smile.

He needed it badly, the work. Anything, really, to keep his mind off his little problem. It felt a bit as though his face was cracking maniacally when he glanced through his final agenda, it did, but Bill let him be. Only tilted his head curiously at his junior partner and said…not a word.

He blessed Bill silently; blessed the Weasleys in general. For many things and not the least of them Potter.

Draco left the office feeling much more in charity with the world, already looking ahead to collecting Theo from Potter's secretary as he'd done on Tuesday, returning the boy safe to the Manor and then Apparating off to the emergency job in Little Hangleton Bill had advised him required first priority. Potter would be busy enough with his patients that there'd be no risk of enduring another awkward moment of making mumbling small talk and Theo had luncheon and an afternoon nap to look forward to. He could work in peace, then. Be useful.

Useful. Necessary to some if not others.

Draco sighed, set his jaw and adjusted his robes, brushing out a stray wrinkle, a stale crumb.

Life, if not precisely brilliant, was at least back to moving along. He felt oddly more at peace, now that he'd partaken of tea that settled like treacle into his stomach and biscuits that were stale enough to weigh anyone firmly fast in the ruts of their usual. He'd almost managed to forget the upset on Saturday morning with Potter. With luck he could even bury his morning talk with Mother in the very anterior reaches of his well-organized mind.

Except…

Of course. First off, he needed to retrieve Theodore from Potter's office. Potter, again, and so soon again. Please Merlin, Draco prayed, rolling his eyes skywards. For the love of all the Ancients, let it be the secretary.

Let it be the secretary.

Draco composed himself a final time and turned on a neat heel into Apparate. Better over with sooner, yeah? Rough ground always was.


	7. Chapter 7

**PART FIVE/SIX**

"I need to speak with you," Potter informed him, his eyes very green. The secretary was nowhere in sight and neither was Theodore. "In private."

"Pardon?" Draco sent a keen glance about the environs of Potter's comfortably boring office, seeking out his small charge. He was entirely unprepared to have Potter's fingers latch on to his forearm. He glared at them. "Excuse me? I can't stop, Potter, I've a schedule to keep, so whatever it is will have to wait."

His first startled thought had been of Theo, and if he was well, but this was St Mungo's and Potter the best paediatrician in it: that couldn't be.

"No! Come on!" Potter had got hold of Draco's elbow. He was dragged across the lintel without another word spoken. The door shut itself behind them and Draco heard faintly the ping of privacy wards going up. He instantly spun to face the closed exit, vaguely alarmed. Potter was planted before the brass knob like a small but determined mastiff.

"Well?" He raised a brow at the perplexing Potter, nonplussed but attempting not to reveal it. Potter was often willful; Draco was accustomed. "Potter? What's so urgent you have to tow me about?"

"This way," Potter said quickly, ducking his chin and not meeting Draco's eyes. He darted forward. "Over here now. Through this door. Hurry."

Another door appeared in the panelled wall, a nondescript one that looked as though it led to a loo or an examining room. Potter yanked on that matching brass knob and Draco stared dumbfounded when it swept open silently, gaping wide. It wasn't a lavatory at all. It was a huge and comfortably furnished study, all old leather and books everywhere and a nice cushy carpet in blues and burgundies across a dark polished floor. With a lovely garden view through a series of floor-to-ceiling plated glass windows, the room was immensely inviting.

"Go on now," Potter urged, and gave Draco a tug on the arm plus a little push at the small of his back so he stumbled unwillingly across the sill. Potter was immediately at his heels, breathless voice in his ear. "You see, it's like this: I'm not wasting another moment, Draco. We're having this out right now, this instant. Your mother, she stopped in to speak to me, you know? No, you don't know, clearly, but I'm telling you now. It can't go on—and I'd no idea. None, Draco, which is utterly, completely mental of you. Mental!"

"Where?" Draco asked slowly, staring about him. "Is this, exactly? Having what out, Potter? What's this about Mother?"

It wasn't at all surprising Potter had a door in his office that led to somewhere very private indeed. He and Bill both had access to their homes direct from their offices on Diagon; it was a matter of course for a busy professional. It was only that he'd never been to Potter's, nor even suspected it existed. Grimmauld Place was all he knew and Potter was rarely there and never entertained the likes of the Malfoys there. Claimed he hated it and it wasn't fit for company, much less family. So…this here. Here before his eyes was another facet of Potter's intensely private life, a piece of Potter he could brood upon when he had the time. "This—here," he gestured. "This is yours?"

"Yep. Godric's Hollow," Potter replied easily, tugging the second door shut behind them. "My parent's cottage, restored. Do you like it?"

"Yes," Draco said instantly, because he did, very much. "It's…very nice." It was, too. It felt…it made him feel content, the room. As if he could make himself comfortable and stay for a while…not that that was a likely turn out.

"Ahem." He cleared his throat. The recollection that Potter had brought him here specifically to speak frankly struck him with full force. His eyes shuttered as he edged about to face the man directly. His Mother had been mentioned, which couldn't possibly bode well. "Ah," he shrugged uncomfortably, a frisson working its way up his spine. "Right. You said you wanted to speak to me privately?" His first concern reared its ugly head for a second time; he clenched his hands into ready fists. "Is it about Theo? Is he alright?"

"No." Potter waved his expressive hands in Draco's face, smiling wryly. Draco blinked rapidly but could only register confusion. "That's not it."

"No? What does that mean? Er, where is the scamp, Potter?" Draco snapped back swiftly, staring about him covertly and trying to peer through an archway that looked to open up to a huge open-floor kitchen, all tile backsplash, copper pots and monumental Aga. "What've you done with him, then? Is he here? Is he...he is well, Potter?" Doubt worried at him, despite Potter's odd smile; of all things, he couldn't bear to lose his nevvie. "No mishaps swimming? Hasn't fallen and hit his head or anything?"

"No! I meant—he's fine, Draco; sorry to have you fretting." Potter caught hold of Draco's sleeve again and literally pulled him over to the couch, like a tug with a Muggle tanker. Draco went along, but only for courtesy's sake. And because Potter-touch was so insidiously beguiling, of course. "Teddy's perfectly well; didn't mean to imply otherwise." For the space of a long breath they fought a silent battle over the matter of Draco sitting his arse on that sofa. He resisted mightily. Potter gritted his teeth and attempted to shove at Draco's shoulders, to no avail. "Your mum's got him now," he went on, narrowing his gaze at Draco behind the lenses. "Stopped in to see me and took Teddy along when she left. Sit down, do."

"No, thank you. To see you, you say? Why would she want to see you, Potter?"

"Please, Draco. I think you'll rather want to when you hear what I have to say."

"Fine, if you insist. But be quick about it, Potter. I really do have commitments to keep." Draco sank down at Potter's urging, his knees watery, his senses tingling. He placed his hands squarely atop them to keep them from visibly knocking before Potter's sharp eyes. It was relief affecting him, of course, nothing else. It was reassuring at least to hear Theo was healthy and hale, and apparently off with his own interfering busybody of a mother. Theo was a dear boy and Draco…well, he'd be lost without him, actually. Having someone to love other than just Mum and Aunty was a relief, an out to the infernal pressure. Someone he could adore and spoil and care for unreservedly without having to hide it, that was. "Oh!"

Love. His Mother. His Mother, on the subject of love. "Oh, no, Potter," he said blankly, staring up wide-eyed at his oblivious mate.

"Draco."

His jaw dropped, his throat clogged; he swallowed dryly.

"It's not?" Paling abruptly, Draco recalled his mother's line of questioning of earlier, of how he'd essentially fallen to pieces under the brunt of it. "She didn't dare—did she?" That wicked, wicked sparkle he'd caught sight of out of the corner of his one wildly rolling eyeball as he'd fled with Theo."Oh, no, no, no! She wouldn't have!"

"Er…yes, actually." Potter had the grace to look elsewhere and blush slightly as Draco's eyes widened ever larger in shock. He humped a slim shoulder at his guest. "She did—has, rather. Just now, a few minutes before you arrived. Said I should know, said she was amazed I didn't know. Told me flat out I basically had my head up my arse, almost as far as yours was, and she wasn't having it, not any longer. Any of it." He shrugged again and Draco could feel the residual warmth travelling across the two inches that separated him from Potter. He inhaled but that didn't mean he was really breathing, oh, no. "And I…I agreed, Draco. Enough's enough. This is stupid."

With a cry, Draco went rocketing off the sofa like someone shot point blank with a Muggle bullet.

"Fuck!" he roared and promptly made a beeline for the innocuous door that led back to the dubious safeyy of Potter's office. "Fuck no, Potter—I'm not doing this! Not now. She had no right!"

He yanked furiously at the handle but it wouldn't budge, and then levelled his wand at it, ready to blast the entire business to pieces. He wasn't merely Wizard, he was Veela. If he wished it, the door would disintegrate as if it had never been.

"Won't work," Potter warned calmly from just behind him. Close upon him; far too close. "Well, maybe it would, for you, but…don't, please. Don't break my door down, Draco, and." Draco heard a huff, a sigh. "And don't go."

"Ngh!"

"Please don't go." And then Potter was somehow not merely directly behind Draco, but shoving his shorter length down Draco's flinching back and tremulous legs, his glorious heat permeating right though the layers. Two broad, long-fingered hands flattened obstinately upon the panelled wood of the obstinately shut door, one planted firmly on either side of Draco's person. White Healer's robes shifted with Potter's motion on the fringes of Draco's vision, encircling his own sober businessman's grey like a small shroud.

Or perhaps angel wings. If Potters were ever angels, the persistent buggers. In Draco's private heaven, they would be.

He shivered, Veela rising. Just noticeably enough to cause Potter to edge closer, to lower his voice to that impossible-to-resist octave only he could achieve and hum a heady invitation straight into Draco's buzzing brain. Essentially, to flay a nerve-wracked Draco Malfoy wide open right where he stood, at bay.

"Draco, turn round and face me, please. We must talk. You owe me that."

"No," Draco replied steadily enough, his wand descending limply to lay long at his thigh, pointing uselessly at the carpet. "There's nothing to talk about." He was barely conscious of its smooth weight or his own fingers curled desperately about it, he was so bathed about in the scent, the feel of Harry. His marvellous lovely Harry—who wasn't and would never be his. "Leave off, Potter. I have to go. I'm late enough already."

He glared furiously at the innocent door as if to burn a hole right through it.

"Draco."

"Allow me to go, please. This is pointless."

"No."

A whisper, the barest possible, and the arms reaching out past his own lax ones tightened, clamping cautiously about him, right at elbow-height. His wand fell unheeded with a little thump. Draco could've sworn much-coveted lips were brushed ever so carefully against first one sore aching shoulder blade where it jutted and then the other. He shut his eyelids, helpless to resist the ghostly touch. Blasted wing buds; Potter was kissing them. Or where they'd been, at least, up till Draco's latest potion infusion.

"No, it's not."

"Potter. Potter, I'm warning you." Draco stiffened into corpse-like rigidity. It couldn't be helped he was reacting to Potter's proximity but then again…perhaps the situation might somehow be salvaged? No 'might' about it, really—it rather had to be, and as soon as possible. He would be forced to have Potter in his life for years to come, after all. Be called upon to see the man regularly, to shake his hand, even to spend his remaining Christmas mornings furtively watching him unwrap gifts and hoping like hell that whatever he'd given him wasn't too revealing. "This is foolish, whatever it is you think you're doing."

"Far from it."

He—he was the foolish one, Draco was sure. He wanted those Christmas mornings to come. Hell, he wanted whatever moments his ever-shortening days in this vale of tears would allow. He'd wish to smile fond-politely whenever Potter might come along upon his small family in his mum's beloved gardens, scooping up Theo and twirling the giggling boy into delighted shouts. He'd still, fascinated, solely to watch the show. But keep himself well away and distant every time Potter would grin blissfully and idiotically at he and Theo, Mum and Aunty Drom across the breakfast table in just that peculiar way he had: wide like the sea and open-eyed and dazzling Draco's heart into a swoony tailspin over the toast. As if Potter were honestly delighted to be included in; as if being an honorary Lupin and a Tonks and even a Malfoy was the best single thing that had ever happened to him, after being a Black and a Weasley. Oh, but that beautiful singular smile, the exact one which unerringly extracted Draco's heart from his chest and laid it throbbing at Potter's always-dancing-away feet.

But that wasn't all. Not by a long shot, no.

All the years to come he'd have Harry near enough him physically, on his periphery, lightning flashing wild and sure on his own lonely event horizon. He'd surely lay a hand on his fellow Wizard now and again in passing, of course, but not anything like when he'd touched his enchanting mate just that one time, ever so brilliantly. The one moment of all Draco's moments where he'd ever felt complete, a total entire man, all of a piece and blissfully desired in return. No…he'd only thought Potter had been wanting him too and then only for the merest blink of an eye. Been delusional, rather. Stupid Veela, taking things for granted.

And then Potter had said—Draco shuddered. Froze fast between Potter's arms.

No, Draco.

Potter had yelped in honest distress. Had batted away at him, pushing off Draco's smothering hands and searching lips, the nimble ankle Draco had twined about Potter's to trip him closer. Had danced away on those blithe feet of his in a panic, the butt of his wand rising ominously, familiarly, in capable hand and then in a flash Lovegood was there, jabbering on and on in the midst of Draco's abrupt bereft-ness, and then the needle had jammed rudely into his bared forearm and it was a brilliantly confusing, exquisitely agonizing blur for a few moments till clarity dawned.

"Please let go," Draco whispered. He could not, for the life of him, stay in that memorable moment. That hideous moment when he'd known, when he'd come to his senses and found himself cold and abandoned in Creatures A&E Intake, behind curtains drawn. When he'd realized what 'no, Draco' really meant to the thing he'd become. "Oh, please. Potter. I'm asking."

"Turn around," Potter insisted, "turn around, Draco."

But Potter was already darting about Draco's motionless form himself, hands off the door to grasp at Draco and then never removing those wicked fingers from the sanctity of Draco's person, keeping close enough to ensorcel his hapless, hopeless Veela in his spell of sweet oblivion, Nimue to Merlin.

"No, never mind," Potter panted in his ear, moving fast. "I'll come to you if you won't face up to me, contrary git. I'm here—don't you see me, Draco, see that I'm right here, before you? Been all along, never have I left you. Don't you get it, Draco? You're not that thick, are you? Are you?"

"Thick?" Draco could not help but echo softly, stuck fast in a bell jar of cold treacle. He blinked. Once, twice. "Thick? No. Not particularly." His lips parted and pressed round the words as if they were foreign to him; they felt numb as the rest of him. He licked at them; they were bone dry. He watched Potter curiously from under the shadows of his lashes, from beneath the lead-laden weight of his drooping eyelids, as if Potter were a poisonous serpent and might bite at him, strike him down where he stood. This dear man, this Wizard Draco adored but couldn't for the life of him begin to comprehend. It made no sense, Potter trapping him now, here, this moment, two years after the main event. And this must be…this could be…this wasn't. Of course it wasn't. "No. I don't think so."

It was sane word, 'no'. If repeated often enough, it might instill some of its impeachable quality in a world gone topsy-turvy.

"Seems like you're pretty dense to me, sometimes." Potter was all green eyes and smiles before him, his back up against the door, his hands settling soft on Draco's collar. "Now, especially."

Draco resisted. Not easy, with the Veela pressing outward, eager to take whatever Potter offered and make off with it. Drag Potter back to its lair and—oh, no. Not going there. He'd learnt his lesson, thanks ever so. Once was plenty.

"No, no, Potter," he scowled, taking refuge in his ready temper. "Leave go. I have work. I must go."

"I said. " Potter's face assumed an air of unbearably smug patience, as if Draco were the slower one of the two of them and Potter a genius. "I had said 'not like this,' Draco, that time. I did not say no to you, not ever, you stupid thing. I didn't."

"You did," Draco murmured. He couldn't shift in the slightest, though Potter was the lesser and Veela could move mountains, if inspired. "I...remember." No, cancel that, he could. With glacial motion his painfully clenching hands were to be found trailing up the smooth reaches of Potter's hips, unfurling like flowers and laying themselves wide across the rounded humps of Potter's buttocks. So warm and so taut. Draco swallowed. "You said no," he murmured throatily. "I heard you loud and clear. It was the only thing I really recall, so I know it was true—it is true. You said no. Don't deny it."

Potter snorted.

"If I did," he shot back snappily, "it was only because we were in the middle of the Paediatrics waiting room in a busy hospital of a Sunday evening, you fool, and I had emergency patients waiting on me and you! You practically had me stripped nude in two seconds flat, and I—"

"What?" Draco's neck was bending against his will, his chin lowering by arctic degrees, his eyes drifting completely shut of their own volition so he could scarcely make out his Potter. No matter; every inch of him knew precisely where every inch of Harry was. "You...what? Hmm?"

"I thought it was only…some weird contra-chemistry, maybe," Potter humped a shoulder, twitchily, grimacing sour. "From the med fumes floating about in Mungo's. At first. Or a misplaced curse, rebounding, from your work. That you mustn't have meant it, Draco. How could you have, I thought? Come on, out of the blue like that? My specialty's children's ailments, Draco, not Creatures—certainly not Veela. And you, Mister-I'm-So-Cool-Malfoy? I'm So-Malfoy-Malfoy? You never—you were always only ever courteous to me, kind to me, maybe teasing me a bit now and again but always bloody polite, and you never said." He gulped. "A word. Otherwise, about anything more...before then."

"How could I?"

"You could." Harry stared up at Draco curiously. Frowned and watched him carefully, narrow-eyed and squinty. "You could've said any time after Teddy. After it was sorted, how we'd all be a family. I was waiting for it, expected it, actually. But you never did, not once. And then you went and got yourself on the strongest Veela suppressant available as soon as you'd snogged me. Literally, like within ten minutes. As soon as you could do, Draco. What was I to think, then? I thought it was glitch, an error. A mistake, never meant to happen. I thought you didn't want me. Naturally enough."

"You didn't want me."

It had all seemed so obvious. But maybe Veela were a little dense, at times. Being rather single-mindedly focussed on the one thing, the true thing. The only.

"I wanted you." Draco flushed deeply at Potter's hasty assertion. "I want you now."

"Liar."

"No…" Potter smiled. Went up on tiptoe and poked his inquisitive nose into Draco's neck, so his spec frames dug into Draco's Adam's apple uncomfortably. "No, never say that. Snog me again, right now, this second, and you'll soon see. Try it, Draco. I dare you."


	8. Chapter 8

**PART SIX/SIX**

The sofa was a lovely one, long and wide, butter-toffee leather. It would've been perfect but they didn't quite make it there.

Never even close; there was a rush and a ripping noise in place of fragrant old leather smell and cushions crunchy-soft beneath falling bodies. The fine weave of Draco's sober robes parted with a thready whimper under a clawing hand as he bore down hard on Potter's taunting smile, Harry's shy-as-a-mouse mouth.

The carpet, now. The carpet was grand. Flat and springy-smooth and situated right before the stubbornly shut door back to Potter's office, which as it happened was right where they happened to be, still. And the thought of Harry beneath him upon the carpet, twisting and twisting but never twisting away. Those ex-Seeker's hands fluttering about between them; those Healer's fingernails short and clean and rounded, slipping buttons and pulling away at clothing, stupid annoying clothing, of which there was suddenly a great deal too much of. And no sign of any needles, long and cold; no frigid rush through Draco's veins at the sound of the word 'no'. None intruding on this moment but Draco's own fingertips, diamond-tough nails sheathed for safety, catching at Harry's wrists to spread his arms wide across whatever surface so he could lay himself fully down atop him, cover his Harry all up, take him over and bloody well keep him.

Carpet would've been grand for that, yes, but. They didn't quite manage the carpet, either.

The door was so very much right there, available, and flat enough and solid, and Potter was there, as well, available right there, his murmuring mouth travelling over Draco's jaw, his splendidly lickable throat brushing Draco's stylishly boring grey collar points as he hummed subvocal encouragement. Draco couldn't, just couldn't hold off another single solitary heartbeat. He squashed Potter against the gloriously amazing wood of the door and had at it.

"I have wanted you," Draco confessed to Harry's hair. "Endlessly."

"Oh god."

Harry groaned against him, tensed and impelled his slighter body forward in a rush, scrabbling at Draco's upper arms as if he were a cliff to be scaled, a treasure to be mined with teeth and claw-curved fingers. Draco turned his head slightly, bent his neck to swoop down again and again and swallow the needy, wanting noises Potter made at him, open-mouthed and thirsting. It was ages before he could bear to allow them to inch apart sufficient to take in air—no, to gulp furiously at the thin edge of humid gap peeping between them, more like, lungs heaving like spent bellows straining for molecule fuel. They lay panting harshly against each other, against the beautiful, beautiful door, miraculously vertical though stumbling a bit on the fringes of that nice flat tempting—unneeded—carpet, two sets of eager lips just touching.

Draco, for the first time ever, positively relished the old mad Creature blood pulsing within him. Veela was good, Veela was awesome, if Veela meant he could have his Potter.

"I can be all you need, if you allow me," he reminded Harry's searching gaze earnestly, and bit down hard on the thin skin that covered Harry's collarbone as he dragged aside the Healer's robes that viciously sought to block his hunger to prove it. "Only give me a chance, one more chance." Sucked for all he was worth between promises, tongue tip soothing the reddening skin, so thin, so insanely good-tasting. "Please, Potter. I'll give you…whatever," Draco couldn't stop, daren't stop lipping and lapping at all that skin, that Potter-skin. "Whatever…you may want. Only ask it of me. Oh, please, Potter."

He could indeed provide, Draco knew. Better than that, he would, with all his heart, every particle, till his dying gasp. Harry would never think to leave him alone again; Harry wouldn't be capable when Draco was finished proving all he might do for his Harry.

"I know." The green eyes glittered up at Draco, lit from within by a deep simmering satisfaction, the spectacles gone away completely some glorious how, made no never mind how, and were no longer able to disguise that lambent glow Draco had always, always craved. Turned to him, directed to him, resting like a benefice upon him. "Oh, I do know." Harry smirked, devilishly cute, brilliantly alive and a'glow, and Draco felt himself plunge deep in love all over again. "Did you think I didn't? Really?"

"Harry."

Draco shook him, Potter, just a bit, in an excess of emotion. He knew not what, exactly, only that a great deal of time had been wasted. It was—it was fucking horrid that it had, but at least it was over with.

"Harry."

The white robes fallen off Harry's shoulders and pooling to the floor were to Draco's Veela's all-seeing glance as wide as the wings tight-furled with joy at his own blissfully pain-free back. Fully fledged wings, nubs no longer, but tucked away neatly so Draco could leap on his Merlin-given opportunity and scramble down to his knees before his mate and use his teeth—so sharp—to bite at Harry's trouser's flies and ease the metal nubs apart with a hiss. His tongue flickered up wet and hot one side of the parted zip, pausing only to press daringly into his mate's hidden navel through the thin scrubs, leaving a damp imprint. Then down again and rapidly, this time grazing over folds of cloth heated by Harry's obvious arousal.

"Let me," he mumbled, his nostrils full of 'Mate!', his gut full of 'Mine!', and felt Harry's frantically nodding agreement down to the curling points of his own shoe-captive toes. "Allow me, Harry?"

"God, yes," Harry said. "Go, already!"

He heeled his own shoes off impatiently as sensation bowled him over and employed his hands everywhere he could possibly reach. Up, down, around. And the carpet: oh, it was wonderful, actually. His knees didn't even twinge, even as he twisted about for more access. After they were finished with the door, Draco was certain Harry would like it—his carpet, under him. So well padded, it was.

Draco noted his thin socks were gone from his wriggling toes at long last, hallelujah, marvellous Merlin! He'd his toes free for grabbing purchase from Harry's carpet to shove his knees forward, his hands free to yank Harry's trousers down nearly to trimly set ankles and he was still managing to keep his wriggling mate pinned fast to the door with a wing and a prayer, easy-peasy, pudding, pie.

"Harry."

Damn, but it was a fine thing to be Veela. Who knew?

"Show me, Draco?" Harry might know, because he double-dared Draco, the gorgeous little prat; taunted him softly, from somewhere above his bent head. "Please, please..." No—begged of his Veela, his Malfoy, so sweet it was that plea, sweet as lark's song his voice, and Draco's heart thumped nearly straight through his ribcage rising up to hear it. "Give me all you've got, Draco," Harry said. "Take...take everything," Harry said.

And if there was a crack in that command, a hitch in Potter's voice, it only made it all the more marvellous to follow obediently.

"Don't. Don't hold back."

"Mmn-nnrgh!" Draco moaned greedily 'round his mouthful of Potter cock, for really he'd not waited, not for instant. He was no fool, he was a Malfoy. "Mhnmh!"

Oh—and he would! Gladly, so gladly, take everything of Harry's. Take it to pamper, to stroke, to adore.

And, god, oh, but Draco's wide-fanged, long-tongued mouth had been expressly designed to worship all the delicious skin, all the smooth goodness gathered taut and salty with faint scent of sweat and healthy male resting between Harry's pale thighs. His tongue had been fashioned by Merlin himself to lick and to lick, to flute and press and to encircle. He slathered on excess saliva like syrup till Harry's hairy sac and supple dick literally dripped with liquide du Draco Malfoy. His essence, his mark…and then lapped the slop all up just as eagerly, along with the first ripening droplets of saline-slime welling up from that cherry slit.

"Ev—everything!" Harry pleaded on and on, his sturdy scar-marked kneecaps beginning a slow buckle as he gasped. "Yessss, all of it. Oh, go on, prove it me—prove it! Sssshow me, ssssshoooow…."

Draco could hear the back of his Harry's head thunking hollowly against the wood he was spread-eagled against; so satisfying a sound it made, he'd never heard one better.

"Show me, show me," Potter chanted, moaning, hands fisting uselessly, legs restless. "Ssshow—oh-gods-shit!"

Ambrosia to the ear, Harry's words were—no, to all of Draco's senses, man and Veela. Joy, joy, joy.

"Draco, Draco...Draco!"

Draco trembled happily under the grabby weight of Harry's fingers descending upon his sweat-ruffled hair. Sucked a hasty inserted fingertip into his sloppy mouth and circled its equally sloppy narrow-knuckled wetness upon the small wrinkled pink circle of muscle tucked demurely away behind Harry's black-furred bollocks. He'd not done this exact thing before—no, never! — but it seemed the right thing to do this time. It seemed what Harry might want. And Draco knew just where to reach, to delve, exactly how to go about it. Merlin! There was something to be said for blind blood instinct, for the beastly needy creature he'd become. If it had Harry moaning like that, he'd never stop, never.

"Oh, yesss-yeshh-yethhssss, ah!"

Draco gasp-snuffled with welling-up delight, swallowing desperately and repeatedly to prevent himself choking on the thickening girth he'd stuffed into his face.

Oh, he did not! He was codswalloped when it struck him, what exactly he was hearing from his Harry. Just...did not. Say—that! In that way. That.

It was the sliding, silvery sound cascading against his straining ears, the unmistakable secret language of serpents. Once heard, never forgotten.

Twice heard, beloved to Draco's cock like no other sound in the world. His heart, too, but really, really his cock!

Harry did. Was, the little bleeder! Was whispering fractured syllables of his second language for Draco's delectation, broken up and interspersed with pants and inhuman hisses, and was actively torturing Draco into a squirmy dither with bits-and-pieces of slithery nonsense-seeming sounds, likely all unknowing he was speaking two separate tongues when he was speaking at all.

If Draco had been aroused before then, it had been the merest child's play, the barest nth of a fraction to what he felt burgeoning between his legs after Potter slathered Parseltongue over and upon him.

Soul syrup...no! Sex syrup, ladled on generously! Hot—sweet—evil.

Certainly, Draco had heard Potter use Parseltongue before to amuse Theodore. Chatting up the grass snakes in the garden, on a sunny day. Yes, he recalled that one time, with his little cousin at his godfather's knee staring up wide-eyed and wondrous as the slim living ribbon twined up Potter's bared forearm, hissing tales for his ears only of successful egg clutches and the best of basking places to be had at the Manor by an average, run-of-the-mill, workaday serpent. Theodore giggling uproariously when Potter translated and Potter, too, chuckling away pleasantly amidst the 'shhhaaahthaw' of it. The sound of 'ssssthhh' alone had shafted right through Draco's privates like a bolt of wild hot lightning. Wicked, wicked Potter.

He remembered cursing his mate roundly, silently, solely for owning that splendid second tongue of his birthing, that gift of the Slytherin. No one should ever be that despicably tempting, not when sitting demurely in midst of amusing Draco's precious boy, Potter's Teddy.

Then, oh, that rotten nadir moment back then, his utter downfall and just as inevitable, when Draco found he couldn't bear another tick-tock of his self-imposed eavesdropping, nor the relentless sensual torture! He'd slipped away as soon he decently could manage to pry himself from behind the cover of the tree trunk he'd ducked behind, when first unknowingly stumbling upon the two of them, his lovely darlings, at innocent play in his mum's rose garden. Recollected with a wince how he'd been limping in literal pain solely from the power of that measured sibilance sluicing through him, following after as he'd scarpered off, hobbled.

Draco had been gutted that day. Bent in half with want.

He'd ended up wanking off furiously in the privacy of the small kitchen garden, crouched over his own haunches and feeling as if he was endlessly falling withal, miserable with the outright unquenchable desire for Potter, for the lure of the secret language Potter cast off his tongue so easily, as if it were nothing. But not nothing, never 'nothing' to Draco. Had been nearly weeping in a panging agony of frustration and mounting, stymied hind-brain urges as he jerked away at his dick, yank after harsh yank till his mind felt liquefied, dribbling out his ears much as his flinching slit dripped a glassy glaze all across his knuckles and down the joint of his wrist.

He'd wanted to hold them both, to gather them up to his aching breast and protect them for always, but more even, he'd craved a moment alone with his Potter. A chance to show the idiot shamelessly how amazingly fanciable he was for Draco, how monstrously desirable in Draco's view. He'd wished and he'd wished, and fruitlessly, for the fall of that language into his gasping mouth in another place, another time, transferred by exchanging kisses. In his own bed, shared amongst two bodies entwining, relishing and wanton, and in glorious little sips straight from Potter's lips to Draco's, whilst he returned to his mate a thousand-fold all that spine-shattering pleasure he felt.

Felt all alone, then, unreciprocated, and hidden away in hideous secret. Shameful secret.

Draco remembered, yes.

The cold-house glass had been sun-hot-searing on the small of his back where he'd hunched, plastered up against the panes, burrowing away out of sight, out of mind altogether. His nostrils had been assaulted by rosemary and thyme, borage and verbena crushed under his heels, his burning eyes had been watering in the dazzle of reflection. He'd had the advantage, then. Could see them, his most favourite people in the world, by peering through the multi-faceted reflections of the cold-house wide panes, but they'd never been able to see him, not that day.

But...glorious. What he wouldn't have given, afterwards, to hear it once more, Potter's Parseltongue.

Then, he'd assumed it had been Veela urges mostly. Yes, that was it; was always it any more, but Wizarding as well. Hs kind had always been tremendously fascinated by a facility of tongues.

But, no. No...human. One hundred percent human, as he'd come to understand in the midst of his personal aftermath, his dick limp in his hand, bathed in his spent pleasure. It wasn't—had never been—only just the Veela in Draco who wanted Potter. Of course it hadn't. He was also a man, full-fledged; he'd been a boy, once, like Ted, but always and ever hunting after someone he couldn't possibly have. And he'd wanted that one particular person still, and no less fiercely, and the language of snakes had somehow called up every memory of misunderstood lust, misguided efforts, chances tossed away. It had resounded loud in his brain-pan, his bearing witness to Harry Potter ever so casually speaking snake before a wide-eyed, awed-speechless boy-child. Hadn't there'd been another boy like that once, long ago, caught up an engineered duel, a mortifying disaster, and in the bitter end of it only that boy left alone, bolting desperately to the loo unnoticed by his mates Crabbe and Goyle?

Brede, but Parseltongue. Draco's nemesis as much as Potter had ever been. It was never, ever fair, what Harry did to Draco. Even now, at this moment of unbelievable triumph, even so...he wanted it. Craved it.

"Draco, shth-ow-ah-shhhiiit! Oh, oh!"

Mayhap it was a passing Cupid or a kind Venus paying Draco back for all those years of trouble, but it was his. His Harry's, and apparently meant for him and him alone.

The fillip of excitement roaring through Draco was nearly too, too much to bear. Now, bloody finally, his ears were filled again with that self-same hissing, a gorgeous noise and all about sex, sex-that-was-more-than-the-sum-of-itself, so an exultant Draco simply had to crack his jaw open wide as it could possibly go, recalling the grass snake preening sleekly for his Harry, and swallow repeatedly, gurgling as he tongued the underseam of Potter's cock filling his gullet.

Oh, fuck, but it was brilliant.

More brilliant in his actions caused his lovely precious Harry to shiver helplessly where he was sprawled against the polished panels, legs a'tremble. Had him squeaking and squawking so loudly in startled delight Draco had to consciously stuff down the almost unbearable urge to spurt out the flood of his come right that instant. Just spray out his essence right through his pants and trousers, right smart on the sweat-streaked door, spatter filthily the handsome carpet, and then sear straight across where Harry's calf muscles jolted and flexed against the unholy length of Draco's rigid dick, oh, he would, could come—would come—come!

He must have snarled aloud some gibberish to that effect, for Harry's flexible hips bucked against Draco's palms instantly, thrashing.

"Fuck, yessshhhhh!" Harry shoved his pelvis out blindly, sweet 'esses' slipping though shattered pants, his lungs heaving under the bone and skin of his bared chest, curling his spine down as his head drooped heavy, eyelids wrinkled in ecstasy. A lock of black hair dripped perspiration down one fast-blinking eye; Harry's teeth bared in a frenzied flash. "Do it! Do it."

"My fucking god, I am, Harry—hang on, just hold up." Draco's head spun, logy with the humid whiff of another man, his pretty man, literally driven almost beyond the point of endurance. He reached upwards, mindlessly twisting at a nipple, raspberry ripe, which had caught his eye ages before Potter descended into Parseltongue. "Sod it, not yet!" he begged. "Wait for me, wait. Together, Harry—please, just together!"

Draco wanted. Draco needed!

"Sssssood you," Harry snarled unhappily, rapping softly at Draco's upturned forehead in frustration, "And ssssoodding cursssse waiting!" He tugged at Draco's hairs for emphasis, fingers twisting into the sweat-soaked curls at Draco's nape.

"Not yet, not yet, please, please, Harry," Draco mumbled stubbornly, sorely reluctant to leave his lover's prick lonely without the caress of his mout about it but pulling off at last with a pop and a final loving lick. "Love, wait for me."

Not thinking a thing about it and only because his Veela said he must, next, he grasped the base of his Harry's cock with curled thumb and first two fingers, squeezing tight. His pinkie slipped down to slide over the drawn-up bollocks gathered beneath, smoothing away at them reflexively.

"Ohhh, urgh!" It was apparently a smash sensation on the receiving end. Potter's mouth fell wide open and he ceased all his nattering about wanting to ejaculate immediately.

He gaped, blinking blankly. Draco took a second to enjoy that expression, as it was purely adorable.

Then he daringly dove right to again, because Harry really wanted him to. Everything about his Potter screamed of wanting it.

Oh, he wanted it, Draco's mouth.

"Yessssth, yessssshhh, ye—"

Oh, but his Harry's cock throbbed enticingly where it surged past Draco's teeth, chafing his tingling lips, bruising his soft palette.

It was all Draco could think of—his steady swallowing down Potter whole. Sod and bugger his own neglected member for the moment. Plenty of time for that, later. But this—this new thing was ever so mesmerizing, not the least because he'd never dreamt he'd have the chance to be doing this. He'd not given head before; had never felt the urge. Seldom received it and not once after he'd sorted Potter out as his fated one-and-only. But he did now, he so did, with a will. And it was all in-and-out in a jerky rhythm and the taste of Harry was oddly strange and saline, musky inside him, but, oh, so amazing.

He was good at it, too. Delighted beyond all measure, Draco hummed a few bars of 'Pop Goes the Weasel' round the shifting velvety shaft wedged into his glottis for shits-and-giggles, half off his head on a combination of oxygen deprivation and hilarious high spirits. Drunk on sex, high on Harry, he was—yes, he knew it. Potter-struck.

"Ah! Ah! Ah! Draco!"

Pleasing Potter, it was all about that. That it pleased him as well was a bonus of enormous proportion. His artful oral ministrations were such he had his beloved nearly collapsed face-first in an instant, staggering sideways all at once with a happy, eerie yowl.

"Whoa! Potter!"

Startled out of his reverie, Draco had to catch at a rubbery kneecap and a wildly thrusting hipbone, employing the thrust of one hard shoulder to keep his beloved pinned safely up to the door.

"Oh-my-god, oh-my-god, oh-my-god! Shhhhit-shhhhit-shhhhhithhh!" Harry babbled away at him, over and over. A raspy sort of voice, one woven of wonder and awe and beautifully sibilant, and the Veela surging madly inside Draco couldn't have been better satisfied. "You have to do that again, Draco. Oh, oh, pleassssttthhh, do that!"

Which came across to his audience as 'Ooh-aff tha'gin, 'aco! Oh, oh, pl'shhhthhhhth'wip, do'atttha'!'

Draco fucking well adored Parseltongue, he did; had for ages on ages, all due to Harry. Like tight-white robes and magical stethoscopes, only better. Even if his brilliantly inarticulate lover could barely enunciate after such a sucking, much less manage to command obedience.

"Right!" he replied instantly. His clutching fingers tightened unconsciously, holding a wheezing Potter at the brink.

That, that, that! Glorious!

But Draco's own erection was becoming horrible to him, a rudely insistent agony glowering between his legs. He wanted release; nay, his petulant greedy dick was the one demanding it.

He growled at it angrily as he levered himself sideways-canting, ripping a reluctant hand away from his Harry's skin to drag at his own stupid belt buckle, his own stupid too-tailored trousers and constricting, nasty-evil pants. Shoved, ripped, pulled at them, all the interfering layers and layers, scratching weals down the tops of his thighs as he did and not caring a whit for it.

"Fuck—fuck!"

Then was back on at his Harry's remaining clothes with intent solely to tear down all the walls blasted ordinary fabric had built between them. He couldn't be bothered over the fact both their legs had ended up hobbled at the ankles—there was arse, glorious arse, Harry's arse, bared fully at last and clasped gratefully within his palms. There was his mate's frantically engorged cock bobbing wildly in the fresh air of the hushed study and, in but a moment more, after he sucked Harry off to the last drop, the two of them would be joined in Veela matrimony.

Except, his Veela sighed, he wished for more than that. He wanted in Harry, but was Harry even ready for it? All this time, the other Wizard hadn't so much as had coffee with another soul. Hadn't dated, nor socialized beyond his ever-growing family.

"Sssshaaag me, sssshhhhhaaaag me!" the apple of his poor thundering heart begged of Draco all the while, lisping and gasping, beads of persperation pouring off his forehead to mix with the stray saliva left dampening his mouth and his flapping jaw. "Come on and bloody well shhhaaaag me, you densssss wanker!"

"Oh-fuck-yesss!" Draco replied hastily, sipping a soupcon of much needed air between sucks and nibbles at thighs and hip-hollows. It was not as if he'd forgotten! "Fucking fuck yes! Gods, but you're so fucking beautiful. Oh, please shut up, though. I'm trying!"

"Shag me, thisss minute! I—want—to—get off, Draco!" he was advised promptly and tetchily, and the hands tangling deep into his ruffled hair and yanking at it fiercely were both painful and loving, all at once. Draco's heart sang. He was wanted.

To business, then.

"May I? Harry?"

Clothes—half-discarded robes and scrubs—pants and a stray sock, everything ignored everywhere in the way; bloody hell. Shoe tips banging anklebones, Harry's Healer wand clattering away as it rolled out of his dangling holster. Pocket change spilt heedlessly and Harry's Mungo's ID lanyard, tiny image grinning up at them. All in the way, like vines tangling, dragging down monuments. It was a cacophony of the mundane, intruding.

"Oh... oh, Draco…" Harry sighed, going boneless as Draco did his damndest and best to make it all that rot fade away, to draw down every last ounce of his mate's attention to him. "Oh, my love."

"Gah—oh, fuck, oh, god." How a man to know where to even start? Draco scrambled madly, in ten differing directions. "Just…just give me a moment, Harry?"

"One!"

Oh, god! Hands, what to do woth them?

"Two!" Harry growled, ticking off time with an impudent finger.

"Potty, unfair!"

"Three!"

Draco never took his lips entirely away from Harry's skin as he struggled, spurred on—to speak, to suck, to make him and his lovely, lovely man more helpfully naked—nor let slip his grip on Harry's arse, not once.

"Right, okay, here, let me—" he gasped nervously, tumbling them both arse-over-tea kettle, torso twisting as he went. There was a wafting 'snap!' as feathers bloomed everywhere, fluttering like mad.

They flapped for a moment before settling, Draco grimly supported Harry's weight all through. The bloody wings proved uncommonly useful, finally, providing him balance as he tipped and tilted them to the blissfully padded carpet. Providing Harry's rising, flailing, scrabbling fingers something sturdy and forgivingly soft to grab and hold on to, too. For, hey! There was the blasted beautifully-toned carpet, cheers, ta, Draco's phenomenally Kind Fate, and didn't his lovely Harry display to perfection, at last completely naked and laid down upon it?

"Pleasssssse now, pleasssseeee!" Harry scrunched up his nose in eagerness at Draco, wriggling his spine across the plush beneath him, his restless fingers settling at last on Draco's collarbone, clinging for all he was worth. "Thank fuck. Jusss' take me, can't you? Up my arse, thissshh sssthecond!"

"Yes," Draco panted. "Coming, love, coming!"

But they weren't really. Not yet.

There were things to do yet. Preparation was key.

"Pleassssse," Harry hissed at him fiercely. He opened his hazy, lust-glazed eyes wide to feast on the show his Veela made: all trailing glossy feathers and triumphantly hungry eyes was Draco. And Draco, in turn, had never seen his Potter so entrancing. His love's face was unnaturally contorted in an unearthly beauty of desire, flesh honed down to the bone beneath and lips swollen lushly . His spare hips thrust jerkily within the cradle of Draco's haphazard grip and Draco's nostrils were tickled with the smell of musk and the feel of wiry curls. It was glorious, all of it—all. "Oh, pleasssssse!"

Draco felt impelled to give Harry anything he wanted, anything on earth. But a blowjob to start with, definitely. No—an arse licking! He'd always dreamt of getting his teeth into that luscious arse of Harry's; now was his chance. And if hands alone were that intense, kneading away at firm flesh, how much better could a tongue be, poking inside? Leagues!

"...Draco…Draco?"

Excepting there were still clothes in the way. He'd lost sight of that infuriating fact, somehow distracted.

"Draco, what the fuck? Mmmph!"

He tore his mouth off Harry's cock reluctantly, driven nearly spare by magically multiplying folds of fabric, all falling down about them. It entangled him, slowed him down inexorably, when all he wished to do was haul Harry's lean thighs over his shoulders and swallow. Push his nose in farther yet to the damp velvet folds, rub his chin against Harry's furred bollocks and breathe easy and free as he lapped up salt and sweat.

"Oh, bloody! Evanesco!" he commanded the garments in an excess of Wizardly huffiness and they obligingly Vanished completely, likely ne'er to be seen again. Draco instantly felt a thousand times better about it all; Harry murmured and lisped his happiness with the result, clinging closer, digging in with pointy knees and elbows. His arse was humped up over Draco's bent kneecaps where he hunkered down, close up against his prize.

An opening once again beckoned Draco. Drew his attention, wicked sexy ever as the Parseltongue blather was.

Hmm. Draco considered, lurching nimbly back on his heels at the thought and hauling Potter's bottom over his lap. So roughly Harry's legs fell wide open at either side of his hips, Draco could see everything. And it looked vastly delicious.

Hmm? Mayhap he should go so far as to stick his tongue well up Harry's arse instead of just on the outside, if that was agreeable with Harry?

Potter yelped at the sudden rug rash from being shoved about but soon settled into a rollicking mindless hum as Draco transferred his buttocks straight back onto the carpet, wrestled those slim legs over his shoulders till ankle bones bopped his own ears—gods, but wings were most helpful when it came to this, weren't they?—and stabbed in his tongue violently.

In—inside. Potter's inside.

Not so cautiously at all, he waggled it about.

Potter groaned, arms falling limp to the floor. Sucked air through his nose and arched his back right up.

Draco had to plant a hand on his love's taut abdomen just to stick his tongue back in again.

"…Harry?" Seemed any number of things were alright with Harry. Anal penetration by a ravening beastie being one of them. "You like this?" Draco remembered to ask after a long swishy, slobbering moment, but it wasn't necessary. "Oh, you do like this! Good!"

"Godsssss, yessssstthhh…fuh-fuh-fwhaaah!" Harry came out his mental stasis with a shout. He growled, gurgled, and scraped gouges down Draco's neck and flinching spine in his eagerness to reply in the affirmative. More than that, he shoved his arse into Draco's face, grinding down, mashing Draco's nose sideways and went right on shouting, "More! More of it; give me more, you bugger," he yelled, his voice gone black-velvet despite the loudness.

"That's it!" Draco was in alt, and feeling quite full of himself. "Then, yes, Potter, yes! Mmmgh-mmmgh-mmm!"

This was stratospheres above the base-response level he'd hoped for, yes it was. He couldn't breathe properly with his nostrils pressured nearly sideways by a ripe bottom, but that was bloody well alright by him. Too, he was probably truly bloody all down his back with Harry's nails scratching away at his skin, but that was alright too. "Oh, please," he pulled back just enough to beg of his Potter. "Mark me, Harry—mark me!"

"No, no, no—no! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fu—!"

Harry took up another chant, a steady drumbeat of want banging away at Draco's on-again, off-again hearing. He moaned aloud, tongue vibrating in Harry's hole in a most excellent manner. This was all he'd ever wanted and more.

"Sssssstop!" Harry set his heels against Draco's shoulder and pushed at him, with no warning. "I'm the one, I'm the one, you massive tit! Make it happen, Draco. Fuck me!"

"Oh—ah?"

"Don't you know what that means, Malfoy? When I ask you to fuck me?"

They separated with a nasty jerk; Draco goggling down at his mate's bared canines, his fierce glare. The hands which were honest-to-Salazar fists waving upwards.

"Oh…" he nodded, catching on. "Right." Apparently foreplay was over—pity! "Yes. Now. Of course, Potter."

"Final-ah-AH!"

He'd two fingers slipped carefully in his mate without thinking about it; was already rising up on his knees and yanking Harry's floppy hips toward his as he went, careful of the carpet this time. Was wrestling Harry's pelvis across his spread thighs and jabbing away with fingertips and blunted prick behind them, smooth and easy. A clamped hand to the shoulder kept the smaller man's curling upper body down upon the carpet as he writhed, tip-tilted, head flopping back and forth. It was all Draco could do to drag his eyes away from the picture Potter made and concentrate on slow-going.

He'd not be able to live happily if he hurt him, that was all.

Then faster—then slower—Draco adding a twist and scissor and wallowing meanwhile in a Harry wide open and captive of desire. Pink rim of muscle reddening to match flushed cheeks, dazzling eyes blind, soot lashes fluttering. Draco wasn't even thinking, had no idea of what it was he was doing, but if his dick was going in Harry the entry surely had to be looser, more welcoming.

He wasn't ever harming him, not his Potty. He'd die before he did that. Love like his was never about harm.

Whatever—it all seemed to be a hit. Buggering spot-on; exactly what was called for in this situation, judging by his mate's expression.

Draco kept at it, till he could bear it no more. Till Harry was thrashing wildly where he was pinned, mute and open-mouthed, his green eyes all blackened dark jade and glassy-brilliant when Draco could manage a glimpse of them through the distracting thicket of midnight lashes constantly fluttering down.

"This is—oh, Potter!" Draco groaned helplessly, unable to not blurt out his thoughts, ridiculously primal as they were, and wrenching his sodden fingers from Harry at last. "This...this, this."

He trailed them wetly across a rippling inner thigh, over glans, up the banner of heroic dick his lover was waving so proudly. He made a loving fist 'round the fleshy mass and squeezed tight, bearing down, fingertips adoring the sensation. Harry moaned and gargled at him, open-mouthed, eyes rolling back in his head.

"This. Is." Draco, for all he wanted to say, could hardly force any intelligible words out.

"Oh, pleassssse…please?" And his Potter! Potter who never gave up, who never went down without a fight to the finish, he was still yammering, wasn't he? The strange gaze transfixed Draco, lids just cracking open hopefully, barely blinking. Harry's dried-out lips pursed; he licked them. "Now? Draco? Now—?"

Nor, apparently, could Potter. Wait. Shut it—be patient—deny a second longer this passion built up between them.

If only Potter would just let him have his say!

"Shaddup, I'm talking. This! What," Draco snarled, taking his hand away from Potter's brilliant member and grabbing at his own unruly cock to steady it, to take aim. Dampening it with spit and slick and readying it at long last, for this was the real point of no return—not that he was asking Harry if he'd changed his mind in the last split-second nor any thick-headed nonsense of that sort. There was no need to ask a single thing of Potter, not now, not a bleeding chance, what with Harry's honest eyes pleading for him to make it all so much better for them both, soonest. "I am talking about, Potter!"

"Ooof! Argh-gh-ghack!"

"Is."

As he shoved forward and in, Draco hauled the balance of Harry's pliant body up, in a move so smoothly athletic it had to be otherworldly. Veela-bred, this need to see his mate, to view every inch of him becoming Draco's own.

"This. Is."

It was so profoundly exciting, so nerve-wracking, it rendered Draco was paradoxically calm. Viewing it all from the eye of the storm, rather.

Veela-born, it must be, this need to watch Potter come apart at the will of Draco's fingertips, at his wanton machination—his blooded desire. To hold him tight and rock his rampant drooling cock up and in and forward, inch by grand inch, till Harry's drooping head fell heavily as a bedewed daisy-top upon Draco's neck, lolling there fitfully, and Draco had gathered all of Harry up against him like a spring-fresh bouquet, nuzzling as he lunged.

"Mine, all mine. You are mine. Now." Pounded, more like, then withdrew. Paused, pounded again. "Now, now, now—oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, Harry!"

Plunged in, pulled back, teasing, but not. Never teasing again, not his Harry. Unless Harry wanted, naturally.

"And me, I'm," Draco added raggedly, narrow of eye, pointy of teeth and bearing down and up mightily, all at once. So confusing but his Veela knew how to do it, how to extort those pretty squeaks from Potter, thank Merlin! "I'm yours, all yours. Never—doubt—it!"

Harry's mouth curved into an 'O'; he threw all his strength into mating Draco's motions.

Speechless silence reigned in the very nice study at Godric's Hollow, punctuated by grunting. An "ah-aar-ngh—!" issued from someone. Either one of them it could be; hardly mattered. Sobbing, too, nasal and reedy. Green eyes reeling wildly up at him, drawing Draco's mouth down to Harry's inevitably, to drink. Then, Harry:

"Aungh, ungh, ah! Shhhh, Dr-aaaaa—" he hiccoughed. "Oh, oh, oh," he sputtered, biting at Draco's earlobe. Sweet as sugar pie, sweet as candyfloss, against the corded veins standing out in Draco's neck. Fell promptly into another fit of happy hissing there: a slew of mumbling, muttering onslaught of 'esses', of 'sh-shhh's', indistinguishable from one to the next. A plethora of "yessss, pleessssth, yesss, pleassssth," over and over again, in a mellifluous litany.

Total acceptance of Draco's suit; it must be that, or so Draco thought it might be the 'for real' at last, for the whole value of his truth.

Accordingly, he settled Harry into his embrace completely, pushing that silly-arse head of hair gently onto his shoulder to rest, easing those lovely legs 'round his waist, clamping elbows down to steady them both and holding on, holding on, holding on for dear life. And always, always with the in-out, the joining of them.

"…hwwangh!" Harry might've said. Draco only carried on with it all the faster.

….And not that he could hear properly, what with the blood pounding in his ears, pulsing behind his eyeballs. Carpet fibres rustling under his folded legs as he thrust upwards, the creak of his knees joints, the crack of his strained ankle bones, wingtips shifting fluttery thither and hither to steady his balance, and the constant slap-slap-slap of balls-up to slippery arse-crack. It made no sense, his Potter's constant gabble nor his own, but it didn't matter in the slightest, as he at last understood what it was Potter wanted him to know.

'I am yours; take me,' his Harry was telling him, fingers scrabbling for purchase, clinging to the flexing bases of Draco's wings. His ankles crossed neatly behind Draco's back, tucked under warm feathers.

'I am yours; I've always been.'

He enthusiastically sank his teeth into Draco's collarbone on a yodeling moan. Draco closed his eyes tight with joyful finality and exerted his every muscle called to command: short and long motions, strokes of genius up and then down again, his flesh burning as it was used mercilessly to stretch, to impale, to claim. To bang away, bang away, bang away, all!

"—Oh! Oh-my-ga-ga-god—!" Draco absorbed the sound of Potter whimpering and it was good, so bloody good.

"Harry, Harry, Harry, my Harry," he crooned in return, ever so fond, so frigging happy his entire everything sang with it, the feeling, and even got a sneaky hand snaked miraculously between them, squirreled into the narrow space left by two sets of ribcages heaving, the gap barely navigable though a maze made of arms grappling as Harry struggled to grip, his whole body buffeted upwards by Draco's slamming hips.

The carpet, the carpet was frigging beautiful. So lovely, like jewels spread before them. And the sun, the sun, as it slanted in the windows, was indescribably golden. This home, Harry's, his home, Draco's.

"Harry….Harry…Harry…oh, Harrr-eee…Po-Potter!"

And Theo, their dear boy, their beautiful child, was by blood and by bond as much Draco's as Potter's. Theo would love it here, as world his mum and Aunty. Christmas mornings would be doubtless brilliant from this moment forward!

Overcome by it all, Draco aimlessly, brainlessly pulled his palm slippery-smooth over a molten bulbous rod of cock, then squeezed, then released, and did it again, all in time to their twinned heartbeats.

"Harry."

Matched up, meeting, just as their lips were, their bumping noses and scraping cheekbones under drum-taut skin and their entangling sweat-streaked hairs, blond and dark.

"Ha! Har—oh!"

Pulled and tugged, knuckles sticky-tight one second, loosed up the next; then up, down, up, down, just as his cock was clenched and released, milked and teased by the heat that made up the inside of Harry. His prick was sliding home in the splash-over of his own pre-ejaculate, and Harry's arse fluttered wildly about it, keeping it safe, keeping it all between them, within.

If he'd ever had any inkling it could be like this, Draco would've never been able to endure, no. Potion, schmotion. Fuck.

It was the last clear idea he had in his spinning head before he shouted aloud—"Harry!"—and his world streaked black-white, the backs of his closed lids blanched scarlet, a high, sweet song thrumming in the emptied area between his ears in long drawn-out pulses. "Harry...Harry, my Harry."

Oh, gods, he was grateful.

Draco felt it to the tips of his fingers and the joint of his toes when Harry likewise ejaculated, jerking once, twice, thrice. Then going stock-still between one gasp and the next, only to rumble deeply at the end of his wordless groan and collapse limp and liquid-boned against Draco's person. Hot, viscous liquid dripped between them, silver as mercury, burning where it landed and brilliant. Binding Draco, anchoring Harry, as much as the load he'd only just left in Harry: his mark, primitive as fuckall, coarse and filthy-deep as any ritual blood-letting Neanderthal sacrifice.

Veela in and Veela out, and semen did it best.

Draco sighed blissfully into his mate's lovely ear, at peace. That throat? That throat was every bit as awesome to taste as it had always looked to be. Buttery-rich. He couldn't imagine better.

Ever.

They were one, and the potion, the dreadfully cruel potion that had kept Draco milky-quiescent all this time, it dissipated from Draco's body with a last foul-tasting subsonic sizzle, fuming the air as it billowed like infrared heat waves from his over-arching wings, only to come to nothing.

Harry, his own precious idiot, kissed the last of it away from the corners of Draco's mouth, making foul faces at the taste between silly-arse smiles. Draco giggled inanely, collapsing them both sideways and carefully down upon the yummy carpet.

Oh. Thank Circe, he thought fervently, spottily, a split-second before he passed out completely, his wings folding warm and cozy about their tangled limbs. Thank Founders, thank Merlin, thank fuck, thank fucking whomever the fuck made this hap—


	9. Chapter 9

**PART SIX & ONE HALF/SIX (AKA EPILOGUE)**

"Don' you?" Draco cleared his froggy throat and tried again, some while later, he didn't know exactly how long. "Ahem. Mmm. Ah, er. Don't you?" He knew only that his muscles were cramping cruelly from lying on a carpet with Harry Potter smashing him flat. Harry was fit, which meant he was no lightweight for all his short and glorious stature. Oh, and that his life was bliss. The very definition of, suddenly, and wasn't that awesome? "Haven't you…patients?"

"Mmmm," Harry lifted his head limply and smiled daftly, closed-mouthed. He blinked. "Mmm, no. Cancelled."

"Brill," Draco replied, instantly, senses on high alert. "Then we have—"

"Time to do that again, yes," Harry nodded his very shaggy head. Which was all damp on the ends and smelt amazing. "Plenty. As long as we like, as often as we like."

"Oh—fuck!'

It was not to be, Draco's short lived joy at hearing Harry's plan for the day. He sat up, switchblade quick, and shoved a naked Potter off his lap, rolling his eyes as he reached for nonexistent robes. Frowned terribly when they weren't there, too.

"Oh, fuck, I've work! I have to go, Harry—I'm so—I've—I can't!"

"Ack!" Potter yelped, scrambling inelegantly to re-establish himself atop Draco. Managing to curl himself up like a kitten, too, when he did it sucessfully, an unfortunate image that had a distracted Draco almost instantly inwardly melting.

He flopped back on the carpet, done in by a winning combo of no available work robes and an honestly, excruciatingly, adorable, actual Potter. Who said to Draco: "Wait, no! You don't, idiot man. It's all in hand—I just forgot to tell you, sorry."

"Tell me what?" Draco demanded, levering Harry's dropped chin up with one thumb so he could stare at him suspiciously. "What're you hiding from me, Harry? Don't not tell me things. I'm yours, you know. You're mine, now."

"Ngh." Harry shrugged, ever so casually. "Ah," he added, stretching the shrug into a luxuriant full-body reach. "Hmmm," he hummed licking his chapped lips and settling back against Draco's bare chest.

"Come on, Harry," Draco prodded, patiently. "Spit it out, say it. I won't be angry, I promise."

"It's…well. It's like this." Potter went all shifty-eyed; Draco tensed. "No! It's nothing to be angry about, either. It's only. Only, criminy, you are so over the top, sometimes. I'm for it, I can already see that."

Potter huffed, faintly, but he was smiling, still.

"Yes?" Draco narrowed his eyes, ever more suspiciously. "It's like what, Potter? Because I do have a responsibility to our clients and as much as I'd like to do this all day, do you all day, I cannot. I have a job, fuck it but there it is, and it doesn't choose to wait upon me shagging you silly whenever I want. We'll have to meet up later—"

"No, we won't, Draco," Harry interjected. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. Your Mum?"

"What about Mum?"

"When she stopped in to collect Teddy she told me she and Aunty and Bill were taking on your jobs. All of them. Said to tell you to take a damper, Draco, and relax for fucking once, she'd handle it."

"No!" Draco blanched. "My mother never said 'fucking', Harry! You lie, you little wanker!"

Harry shrugged. "Well, no. She didn't, not in so many words, but that's what she meant, I'm sure. In any case, we're free, you and me. Free as the wind. We can shag till we're raw, if we want." He peeped up, through those damned overlong lashes of his. "Um. I want, as it happens. You so want, yes?"

"Yes! Er! Well." Draco swallowed hard, his mind caught fast upon the image of his mother and his Aunty, poor Weasley in tow, banishing banshees and ridding various unsuspecting client's homes of cursed cabinetry, all in a day's work. Rah! Go, Mum...but. "Huh. Really?"

"Really," Potter nodded. "Um….Draco?" He elbowed his Veela gently in the ribs. "That's all right, isn't it? Because I don't think she was planning on consulting you. Or waiting for permission, either. I think she was just going to go ahead and do it."

Draco considered.

"Hmmm." His mum had been complaining of an extended bout of ennui recently, what with Theo having tutors and swim lessons and the like. And Aunty had taken up first knitting, then macramé and then ikebana, only to cast them all aside in a huff. There were only so many tea parties and socials two intelligent elder ladies could attend, after all. Only so many charities they could micro-manage in their spare time...so. "Hmmm. It…it might very well do, this." He nodded genially at Potter's tentative half-grin. "We could certainly use a few more temps. Business has been skyrocketing lately."

"Yes!" Harry nodded right along with Draco, even more enthusiastically. "I thought so too, Draco. And it'll will leave you a little more free time, which will be," he blinked at Draco, all feline and mouth-wateringly sticky with Draco's seed, and knowing it, the git, "quite convenient."

Draco drew in a sharp breath. His Potter, he could sense, would provide him a run for his Galleons.

"Now, come kiss me," his Potter smirked, laying back at his ease upon the jewel-toned carpet and fiddling with his delicious bits in a manner gauranteed to attract Draco's attention. "I want more of you."

"Of course, whatever you wish. My command, Harry. Always." Draco replied with alacrity, blinking. There was a fair amount of Potter he'd missed out on, the first time. Must needs rectify that, soonest.

"Fucking well right, it is," Harry mock-growled. He pawed at Draco, who acceded willingly, bending down to lay lips on Potter's parted ones. "C'mere, you!"

"Oi!" Draco gasped when his ears were grabbed and his head was hauled downwards, Harry's mouth crushing his own gasping lips suddenly, flattening them like spent pillows.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, happily, much later on relatively-speaking, drawing away when he was finally allowed, which was only after some incredibly ingenious tongue action. "It's like that, is it? Potter."

"Just like that," Potter purred sweetly, and nestled closer, his lovely naked person rubbing at Draco's equally delightful nudity. There were, Draco noted, scads of moulted feathers absolutely everywhere; no matter. That's what elves were for, wasn't it? "Mmmm, just exactly like that, love. Now come on. Don't make me wait."

**Finite.**

**(I do hope you enjoyed it. Tiger)**


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